


Unavoidable

by BrynTWedge



Series: Paths Walked Together [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John Watson, Caring Mycroft Holmes, Depressed Greg, Depressed John, Gen, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Greg-centric, Grief/Mourning, Ignored, Lestrade-centric, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Poor Lestrade, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Resentment, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-16 02:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 30,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11819523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/pseuds/BrynTWedge
Summary: After the Fall, Greg suffers greatly - but is largely ignored. Greg-centric fic about his (and John's) experience, and how far Greg slips into depression while everyone focuses on John. Starts to become a bit Mystrade near the end (can be ignored), but part II is definitely Mystrade.





	1. Numb

Greg felt numb. He knew he should be feeling something, but it just wasn’t happening. Was it shock? He didn’t have an answer. He had felt something at first - the icy water drenching over him, the sudden compulsion for his body to eject his insides outwards, the weakness in his muscles… but they had been physical reactions. The dread had rooted in his stomach as he came to terms with the news, tears had flowed down his cheeks… but he still had felt numb even then. It was more evident now. It was an empty numb, instead of a “too much feeling, register nothing” kind of numb.

It had only been yesterday that Sherlock had… Greg gulped, his body still not able to think about it without gagging. John had been a mess, but that was utterly expected. He’d seen it happen. Greg had rushed there as soon as he could, a faint glimmer of hope that Sherlock was alive still, but that had been crushed forcefully upon his arrival.

Mycroft had been there, taking care of the paperwork. John was there with him, sitting in a ball, a blanket over him. It was then he’d felt like his legs would give out, but he resisted. He was a DI, after all. His first instinct had been to cry, but instead he’d floated over to where John was and embraced him.

Greg let out a breath. He’d still had trouble remembering to breathe. He was just tense all the time. He was sitting on the couch, drink in hand, staring into the darkness. John was in the bedroom, no doubt lying and doing the same. Greg could hear him balling to himself through the thin walls for hours, but felt like he needed the time alone. He’d offered his place for John to stay to avoid going back to 221B alone right now… and in a small way, to have some company himself.

He’d been up all night; sleep had obviously been out of the question, and he wanted John to have the bedroom to himself for some space. He’d wanted to cry himself, but he didn’t seem to be able to manage beyond the few tears that occasionally ran down his cheeks. It made him think that it was because he didn’t care as much as John, and was angry at himself for it. However it was very likely that he honestly didn’t. He wasn’t sure exactly how close John had been with the detective, despite the objections the doctor made to their relationship. Greg had known Sherlock for some time, and had noticed how different Sherlock had been with John. To him, it really did seem like it wasn't just friendship… so John had a right to feel more distraught than him.

He honestly didn’t know what to do now. His mind, much like his emotions, were blank. He faintly remembered Mycroft getting him out of work for a while, but he couldn’t remember if it was approved or for how long. But he honestly didn’t care. He couldn’t go back to the office, not in this state. And he really couldn’t leave John on his own. He wasn’t even sure of his own mental state, let alone that of the doctor’s.

Greg drank the last of the liquid in his glass, but still just held onto it. He wasn’t aware of how much he’d drunk, but he failed to care. He didn’t seem to care about anything anymore, which exacerbated his feeling numb.

He heard movement on the other side of the wall. John had gone silent a few hours ago, presumably falling asleep from exhaustion. He felt that the only thing he could do was try make himself useful and comfort John. Perhaps he’ll start processing everything then.

He knocked on the door, and waited a moment for an answer, but entered anyway when none came.  
“John?” His voice rasped, breaking. He’d not uttered a word since they got back to the small flat.  
John was still curled up on the bed, his back to the door. Greg entered, and seated himself on the edge of the bed below John’s feet. He looked at the form to his side, and could see John’s red eyes from this angle. He didn’t know what to say, or if he should try touch him in comfort - and so just sat there in silence, his head hung low.

“Why?” John whispered, barely audible.  
“John?” Greg asked, hoping the man would repeat himself. He wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.  
“Why?""I... I don’t know.” Greg answered. There was silence, but he wanted to try keep talking.  
“I didn’t see it coming. I’d been there for him before, I don’t know why he couldn’t have come to me…”  
“No. Why didn’t you stop them?” John said, more forcefully. Greg was confused for a moment, but then understood to what John was referring. Donovan and Anderson.  
“I…” Greg started, unable to think of words to say.  
“You could have prevented this.” John said, his words like daggers into the detective’s chest.

Greg felt the stabbing pain, and suddenly all the other emotions came flooding in, washing over him. John’s words broke the dam keeping it all at bay. Greg’s heart hammered in his chest and he struggled to breathe. He didn’t have a thing to say in response, because deep down he knew John was right. It was his fault this happened. He should have fought the Yard harder, should have threatened to quit, shouldn’t have indulged Sally in the first place. His whole body began to shake, and he ran from the room.

Greg rushed to the toilet and vomited. There wasn’t much other than alcohol and bile to be rid of, however. He sat on the cold tiles of the bathroom and panted for air, unable to escape the feeling gripping his chest. Sherlock had been his best friend, John too, and look what he’d done. He could feel his blood pulse throughout his body from his pounding heart, and he was feeling light headed.

_Couch_. Greg thought to himself, and tried to stand up to make it out to the living room. His body swayed and he gripped the basin for support. He knew he needed to lie down. He stumbled out and grabbed the edge of the couch, allowing his body to fall onto it. He curled up as tightly as he could, and tried to focus on breathing. It had been hard enough before, but now it was near impossible.

After a minute or so, Greg had managed to control his breathing back to a somewhat normal rate. His body still shook, and the reality of the situation descended on him.  
“Oh god..." He uttered, and burst into tears.


	2. Texting

It was evening again. Greg hadn’t really registered what was going on for most of the day, but had noticed John get up and use the toilet once. He knew that the man must have heard him sobbing, just like he had the previous night, but John hadn’t come to see him.   
_He’s probably too lost to think about anyone else right now._  
Greg sighed to himself.  
_I’m not worth coming to check on._

Greg felt like his gut was twisted and a hole was missing from his chest. He hoped that it was all just a nightmare, but he knew it couldn’t be... nightmares couldn’t hurt this much. He was stiff and sore from spending so much time curled up on the couch. The detective stood, stretched, and walked to the kitchen to get more alcohol. He poured out some whiskey, feeling like he was running on autopilot. He briefly wondered why Mycroft wasn't interfering with them more, but remembered that he was probably also incapacitated with grief. 

_Did he know at all how bad things had gotten for Sherlock?_

As if on cue, Greg’s phone chimed. 

**\- How is John holding up? MH**

**** Greg sighed. Of course, it was all about John. He kicked himself inwardly for thinking it, since it was wrong of him to think that he deserved the same consideration as John. John, who had done nothing but try and help everyone, who had been closer to Sherlock than anyone - even him - and who had tried to talk him down off the roof, and failed.  
_He must be feeling really inadequate, pleading Sherlock to stay and have him jump anyway._

Greg felt sympathy with John, and recognised how he didn’t know how it must feel to see your (and his) best friend stand there ready to jump, and fail to prevent it. Greg knew he’d feel utterly useless, and feel like he didn’t matter to Sherlock, and a failure. Part of him hoped that John’s blaming him so strongly was just trying to come to terms with that guilt, and not an honest belief. But deep down he knew he didn’t fight for his friend’s credibility as much as he should have. In hindsight, he would have done anything if he’d known what would happen. Greg chuckled, and thought how if he’d known, he’d have sent a squad and ambulance to grab Sherlock and keep him safe. 

Greg’s phone rang, but he let it go to voicemail. He didn’t want to talk to Mycroft right now. He didn’t know if his voice would hold out to speak more than a few words.

**\- Gregory, please respond. MH**

**** Greg checked his phone again, and took a large gulp of the whiskey. He sighed again, the tension remaining firmly in his gut.  
_Well, better get used to this. This is going to be how it is from now on._

Greg tried to feel like he deserved consideration as well, but the voice that told him that it was largely his fault crushed his self worth. He replied.

**\- He has been crying, and just stayed in the bedroom since we came home. I went in an checked in on him once, and only said one thing to me. GL**

**** Greg tossed his phone on the table, and returned to the couch. He took some deep, regular breaths, and after a few moments his hands stopped shaking. The glass in his hand was steadier, but he drank the remainder in one gulp.

**\- I have organised an appointment with his therapist tomorrow morning. I am not sure if he is willing to attend, nor if I should send a car to take him. Please advise. MH**

How was he supposed to know if John would be willing to attend an appointment tomorrow? He reluctantly stood up and peered into the bedroom as John had left the door open. He was in the same position as before, except facing towards the door. His eyes didn’t even flicker up to the movement of Greg’s face sticking into the room.  
“John?” Greg softly called, but there was no indication that he was heard. Deciding not to push the matter, Greg retreated back to the living room.

**\- I think the question may be if he is _able_ to attend, Mycroft.**

**\- Please elaborate. MH**

**\- He is unresponsive, I don’t know how I would get him to move voluntarily.**

**** There was a pause. He wondered if Mycroft was considering sending a team to _force_ John into the car. He knew that wouldn’t end well. The army doctor had quite the temper at times, and knew he’d fight hard if it came to it. Bringing him to that point was probably counter productive. For now, at least. Greg hoped it didn’t come to that.

**\- I will be there at 9am tomorrow morning. See you then. MH**

**** Well, that was the end of that conversation. At least Greg didn’t have to do anything. He honestly feared that the doctor harboured a great deal of resentment towards him at present, and would rebel against anything Greg suggested. He didn’t want to be the reason John didn’t get help. 

Greg laid back on the couch. His muscles ached still, and he wished that he could lay down in the bed. It was his bed, but he felt John needed it more right now. He wanted to go and get his pillow at least, but his last encounter with the doctor had made him afraid to get too close. He knew it was silly, but he felt very unstable and wanted to avoid conflict as much as possible. Conceding to his anxiety, he moved a cushion to use as a pillow and grabbed the throw rug to use as a blanket. It was nice to have something draped over him, and once he was laid down, he found it rather comfortable. Before long, he had drifted off to sleep.


	3. Nightmares

Greg could only sleep lightly. Initially the alcohol had let him sleep, but once it broke down in his system, Greg tossed a lot. He kept dreaming of his team shouting abuse towards Sherlock, and he was in the middle. He looked between his team, and Sherlock. He could see Sherlock getting more and more upset, but he didn’t say anything. The insults were louder as his team walked around him, and he didn’t stop them. He decided to speak out, but his voice made no noise. Suddenly he tried to shout, but again, there was no noise that came out. He watched as the shouting mob, suddenly lead by the reporter and his Super, rounded on Sherlock - who climbed up higher and higher on the staircase that appeared. He was on the roof, and Greg tried to follow, to stop him, but the badge around his neck pulled him back. He was being choked while he tried to run up the stairs, but it was too late - Sherlock jumped, and he startled awake. 

Greg panted as he sat upright on the couch. He was sweaty, and he was shaking gently. He found his shirt was pulling uncomfortably against his neck, and he quickly shed himself of it. He hadn’t had nightmares like that for a long time. After a minute, his heart stopped pounding so loudly that he couldn’t hear, and he heard moaning coming from the bedroom.

He knew that if he was here having nightmares, it would be nothing compared to the ones John would be having. John had the hard visuals of what had happened to replay in his mind. He didn’t have to see the blood, or the body… John had. He felt strong sympathy for John, and so stood up to go comfort him. He slipped on his shirt, and walked to the bedroom. 

John was drenched in sweat, jerking violently, and panting. Words were being uttered gently, and the moans Greg had heard were in fact John calling out “no”.   
“No… please…” John spoke, tossing.  
“Sherlock… I can help…”

Greg’s heart pulled. John sounded so pitiful. He walked in and sat where he’d sat earlier, and was again unsure if he should reach out and touch him.   
“John, it’s ok, you’re asleep.” Greg said, obviously not loud enough.   
“Note?” John said.   
“John, wake up.”   
“SHERLOCK!” John screamed, making the detective jump. John awoke suddenly, frantically looking about.  
“Hey hey hey, calm down, John, it's ok.” Greg said to calm the doctor, who was still panting and obviously unaware of his surroundings. 

John sat upright, and Greg could see the realisation in the doctor’s eyes in the dim light. The look of panic was replaced with grief. He didn’t object to Greg’s presence, but instead he leant forward so that he was almost leaning against him. Without hesitation, John began to cry. Greg hoped it would be ok, and leant over and embraced him. John leant harder into Greg’s chest, grateful that his friend was there. Greg let tears fall himself. They remained there, John shaking from the sobs into Greg’s body, and Greg trying hard to steady his breathing so John wouldn’t know he was crying too.

At least it seemed to mean that John wasn’t hating him anymore, Greg thought. He hoped that John would go back to sleep once he settled down, but he knew that he himself had had enough of sleep for tonight, and so John likely did too. The sobs subsided, and John started to breathe normally.

“He’s gone, Greg.” John mumbled.   
Greg looked down at John, who was still leaning against him.   
“I know, John.”   
“Why did he leave me?”  
“I… I don’t know, really.” 

John sounded so pitiful. Greg still had suspicions that John and Sherlock were a couple, and when John said things like that, it was reinforced.  
_I guess, in a way, they were a couple - even if it was just friends. They went through a lot together._

“It was a shock to us all.” Greg said finally. He could feel the doctor’s body tense, and a moment later lift away from him.   
“To some of us more than others.” John grumbled. Greg didn’t miss the stabbing tone, either. But he decided to let it pass.  
“Lay back down. Try to sleep a little more, but if you can’t, that’s ok. You can come out or call for me if you want company.” Greg said, trying his hardest to be supportive. 

John nodded softly, and then laid back onto the bed. Greg lifted the covers and placed them over him, and then left. He closed the door partially, leaving it ajar, so he could still hear John if he was called for. He sat back down on his couch, and rested his head in his hands. He looked at his watch, and saw that Mycroft would be there in three hours. He debated with himself if he should try clean up, but decided that he could look like shit if he wanted to. He was grieving too. 


	4. Mycroft Aids

Greg looked about the apartment. Mycroft hadn’t long left with John. The encounter had been less than pleasant, mostly for him. But he didn’t let on to anyone that he was hurting by what was happening. How could he? He would sound selfish and inconsiderate, demanding attention like a spoilt teenager. And he still felt on some level that he deserved it for the role he’d played. 

Mycroft had come in and asked him a list of questions, all of them regarding John. When had he eaten, how much he slept, if he’d had nightmares, if he’d been drinking, if he’d said anything. Greg answered them simply, and didn’t mention the accusations John had thrown at him. He had hoped Mycroft would enquire as to his state of being, even just a little, but there was nothing. It had been rather crushing, and really encouraged his belief that he was worthless. 

John hadn’t resisted Mycroft in the end. He just didn't seem to have the energy. He had grumbled, raised his voice, shouted out ‘backstabber’, but just surrendered to Mycroft’s will. He allowed himself to be guided out of the door and down the stairs. Greg had wanted to call out for Mycroft to let him know how it went, but didn't. He’d wanted Mycroft to show that he thought of him even a little, enough to at least tell him if he was bringing John back. But the British Government’s attention had remained squarely on John. 

And so now he was alone. The silence seemed different than before. It was an emptier kind. He felt sick to his stomach, aware that it was probably because he hadn’t eaten in two days. But there was no one around to check up on him to see if he was eating, no one who cared if he drank or cried. There was just him. 

Greg stood and moved to the fridge. He grabbed out an orange, and cut it up on the bench.   
_An orange will be enough for now.  
_ He ate it there at the sink, and then went into the bedroom. He wanted to cry, but felt too depressed to. Instead, he sat back in the usual spot, and just stared at the ground.   
_How can it be ok again?_

He knew he sounded dramatic, but he didn’t care. Sherlock was gone, his friendship with John was damaged, he was suffering, and his job was an uncertainty. He didn’t know what state of affairs he’d left his job in. He knew the Chief Super Intendant was very upset with him, and so losing his job was a possibility. Perhaps he’d already lost it, and Mycroft just decided not to tell him yet. 

He felt guilty that he was jealous of John getting a therapy session. He’d seen a psychologist a few times in the past, but not as of late. He did want the opportunity to be able to talk, and to feel like someone cared. To feel he was being helped. He could go out and find one for himself, but it wasn’t the same. He sighed. He just wished there was someone out there that cared enough for his wellbeing to organise something for him. Because as it was, if anything was to happen for him - therapy, company, food - he would have to get it himself. But he also felt that sinister voice that told him he deserved nothing more for how he handled Sherlock’s public demise. 

“I hope it’s helping, John.” Greg spoke softly to the empty apartment. And he did honestly mean it. He wanted John to be helped as much as he could. It was going to be a very difficult journey ahead for him, and Greg worried that the problems he had had before meeting Sherlock, from Afghanistan, would resurface. He nodded to himself, and then left the bedroom to get himself another drink.

An hour later, Greg’s phone chimed. He was back on the couch, and so picked his phone up from the table.

**\- Session was less than optimal. We are returning now. MH**

**** Greg didn’t bother responding, there was nothing of value to say anyway. He was at least glad that Mycroft had bothered texting him. He did start to feel a bit more anxious, however. He wasn’t sure John welcomed his presence, and he still wanted to avoid conflict. But, he took a deep breath, and told himself that John was overwhelmed right now, and to try not take it personally. It was very difficult to do. He knew that regardless of what John did or said, he’d still try to care for him. John deserved that much, and if he really was a factor in the detective’s suicide, he owed it to him. 

Greg was still on the couch when he heard footsteps on the staircase, and keys in his lock. The door opened, and John was chauffeured in. He still looked sullen, and Greg guessed he hadn’t talked much. Might have just said what had happened, and that’s it. John shuffled into the bedroom, where he undoubtedly just laid down again.

Mycroft stood in front of Greg and looked down on him.   
“Gregory, I need to discuss some things with you.”   
“Alright, grab a chair.” Greg said, indicating over to the chair at the dining table.   
“I am aware that you don’t have the space for two people here.” Mycroft stated as he dragged the chair over to sit across from Greg.   
“Only needed one.” Greg said, the depression clear in his voice.   
“What I need to know is if I need to make alternative arrangements for John.” 

_Oh.  
_ Of course, Mycroft was just thinking about John. Greg knew that’s what he should do, but couldn’t help feel overlooked, and like Mycroft was taking away the only company he had. 

“I don’t know. I mean, I know I can’t sleep on the couch much longer, and I can’t share the bed with him. Honestly I don’t know if he wants me around at all.”  
“His opinion about your company might vary, Gregory, however his need for it will not.”

Greg had to stop and think about that last comment. He was right, of course, and Greg felt guilty for thinking selfishly.   
“Yes, of course. I want to be supportive of him, but I honestly don’t know if being here is best for him. Don’t get me wrong, I want him around, but if he just hates seeing me, it might be worse off for him.”  
“He hates seeing me as well, but that won’t stop me from giving him what he needs.”  
“Oh. Why does he hate you? I mean, you lost your brother… you should be the one receiving help, too. He’s probably just angry at everyone, then.”   
“He’s right to hate me, Greg.” Mycroft spoke softly and low, as if it was deeply painful.   
“How so?”  
“Because of what I did. I told Moriarty about Sherlock, information he then used to defame my brother.”

There was silence. Mycroft Holmes never usually admitted anything, let alone mistakes on his part. And one so secretive. Greg was sure that Mycroft hadn’t intended for the information to be used this way, but he could see how John was angry at him. Hell, HE was angry at him. All this time he thought he was one of the biggest factors in Sherlock’s suicide, and here was Mycroft confessing that he’d given the information that instigated it. Greg just sat there and blinked, unsure if he should act on his anger. He did decide, however, that John would likely not enjoy being cared for by Mycroft constantly. Even though it likely would not be Mycroft himself, but even his minions would be enough to infuriate John and cause him to reject help.

“Given the circumstances, I think it best if John stay here with me, Mycroft. I can handle a little anger. I will need to have some kind of bed arranged for me though, if you could?” Greg said, trying to keep his voice calm.   
Mycroft nodded, instantly aware of the conflict that was occurring beneath the DI's skin. 

“I will check in periodically for updates about his condition, and will provide anything you request for his recovery.” Mycroft said, standing in his usual stiff posture. He nodded, and then left. 

Greg was glad that he was gone. He needed space to sort out his conflicting feelings. 


	5. Personal Effects

Later that day, Mycroft had sent people over with a single bed that was set up across from the couch. One of them had asked Greg if they should fetch Dr Watson's possessions, but Greg had told them that he’d do it later. He knew John would rather collect his things himself, and that likely wouldn’t happen if Mycroft’s people were involved. 

Greg felt the sheets on the duvet that covered the new bed, noticing the high thread count. It was much more luxurious than the things he owned, but expected such from things coming from Mycroft.   
John appeared from the bedroom.   
“Hey.”Greg said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt.   
“That’s mine.” John spoke to him.   
“I’m sorry?”   
“The bed.”   
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Greg said, actually a little relieved he could have his own bed back again. 

“Listen, I told Mycroft’s people that we’d go get your stuff. I didn’t think you'd want them shuffling about grabbing your things.” Greg said, hoping the doctor didn’t start getting angry.   
“Alright." 

John walked to the bathroom. Greg remained standing in the living room and exhaled with relief.   
_Well that went better than it could have._

“We'll head over once you’re ready, ok mate?” Greg called out, knowing the doctor would be able to hear him from the bathroom. The toilet flushed, and John came back out after washing his hands.   
“Alright. Might as well go now.” He spoke sullenly.   
“I know it’d be hard to be back there… so seriously, just take your time.” Greg said.   
“It’s not going to get any easier, Lestrade, so I might as well get some clothes.” 

Greg felt hurt from the distance John was giving him, by calling him by his surname. He just nodded, breathed deeply, and indicated to the door. Both men grabbed their shoes and put them on in silence. Greg knew he shouldn’t feel upset that he was doing all this for John, and John was acting like he wasn't grateful for it. He had to keep reminding himself that John was suffering and so not aware of the things he was doing and saying to other people. Secretly, he wished he could be permitted that freedom too. 

They arrived at the front door of 221 Baker Street. It was rather unsettling for Greg, so he imagined the torment that must have been rolling around in John’s mind. He was standing stiffly at the door, as if trying to make himself open it.   
“It’s ok, John.”  
John just looked back at Greg, and then took a deep breath. He opened the door, walked in straight past where Mrs Hudson was, and walked up the stairs. Greg followed closely behind. John stopped at the door to 221B. His hand was rested against the door, and his eyes were closed. Greg just stood back and let him have the moment. It was strange that the door was closed at all, but he assumed Mrs Hudson had felt it should be shut. 

After a few moments John opened the door and walked in. The sight made him visibly tense. It was like nothing had changed. Things were still strewn about like they always were, and there was even Sherlock’s mug rested on the table. Greg had walked in behind John. The doctor was having difficulty breathing, and looked like he wanted to run. The detective gulped, unsure what to do. There was definitely a vacuum in the room from Sherlocks’ absence, but he hadn’t lived there - so it didn’t hit him as hard. Not like it was to John. 

Greg noticed John’s body was trembling, and he looked like he might keel over. Instinctively he walked closer to catch him should he collapse. Tears escaped John’s eyes as he withdrew into himself, wrapping his arms around his body and squatting down.  
“John…” Greg breathed, and knelt down to hold him. 

They didn’t speak, just simply stayed there until John managed to control himself again. Greg knew that it was the army training in him, forcing him to block out everything and maintain control - and honestly, at that moment, Greg couldn’t tell if it was a good thing. 

John stood, pushing Greg off him. It was a gentle shove, and in other circumstances, Greg wouldn’t have thought much of it. But he got the message that John was not happy with him still. The doctor didn’t say anything as he began to walk away, but shot Greg a stern glare that obviously said ‘don’t you dare follow me’. Greg nodded to him, and swallowed. He stood there stoic, eyes trying not to dart about the room and see the ghost of Sherlock’s presence. It was hard on him, to think that he’d never run up the stairs again and find the detective sitting in his chair, or walking about. It was like the flat was being …inconsiderate. Looking like things were still the same, when it clearly wasn’t. 

He could hear John upstairs, shuffling about. He was clearly trying hard to pack what he needed quickly. Greg didn’t blame him. Suddenly, the blood drained from his face and he felt like ice water was poured over his head. It just occurred to him: John still had his gun.   
_What if he brings it? How do I take it off him without stepping into his personal space?_

Greg didn’t know what to do. He assumed the worst, and that John was bringing his firearm with him. He just hoped that John wouldn’t try to use it… but he knew that he’d have to watch closely in case it started looking that way. He tried to rationalise that he himself had a gun in the house, so John could access one easy enough should he want to. He decided to ask a higher authority.

**\- Mycroft, we are at 221B getting John’s things. I am concerned he has packed his gun. GL**

**** Greg held his phone in his hand, waiting for the response from Mycroft.

**\- That was my concern as well, however I am sure he would have secured yours should he want to use one and so allowed him to choose to bring it himself. MH**

**\- That doesn’t stop the worry that he’ll use it before I stop him, Mycroft.**

**\- I will install surveillance in your home to be able to monitor him, and alert you should I see anything concerning. MH**

**\- Normally I would be against that, but I think it would be best. We will be home soon though.**

**\- I will see to it immediately. MH**

**** Greg pocketed his phone. He was still unhappy about the surveillance, but felt that he should allow it. It was a reasonable price to pay for the security to stop another friend committing suicide. If John did, and he was there in the flat but hadn’t stopped him, well… he’d probably follow suit.

John walked out a moment later, a duffle bag on his shoulder. Greg eyed it, all but certain as to what it contained.   
“Was there anything out here you needed?” He asked, keeping his voice steady.   
“No.” John responded shortly, and walked out of the room. Greg followed, and shut the door behind him. 

Back at Greg’s flat, he tried to act normal. He knew the cameras were already installed, and he wasn’t sure where. He hoped that Mycroft respected his privacy enough not to install them in the bathroom, much like when surveying Sherlock. John dumped his bag on the floor beside the bed.   
“I wish there was another room here for privacy.” John grumbled.   
“If you like, we can get one of those room dividers? Put it at the head of the bed, so at least you can’t see the kitchen.”  
John nodded, and sat on the bed. He didn’t notice Greg’s tension at the ask of privacy. Greg was feeling a bit relieved that Mycroft was already spying on them. He pulled out his phone.

**\- John would like a room divider to separate his bed from the kitchen. GL**

**\- Very well. MH**

**\- Which rooms have cameras? I have to ask.**

**\- Lounge/John’s bed, Kitchen, and your bedroom. MH**

**\- Why my bedroom?**

**\- To be thorough. It would be difficult if he chose to spend time there and something happened we should have been aware of. The divider will arrive in a few hours. MH**

 

**** Greg nodded to himself. John hadn’t moved to unpack his bag, and so Greg assumed he wanted to do that in private to hide his weapon.   
“Right, well, the divider should arrive soonish, so I’ll just be in the other room.” Greg said, John not moving to show he’d heard him. 

Greg walked into his bedroom and instinctively looked about for where the camera was.   
_I’ll have to get used to the feeling of being watched._

He flopped himself ungraciously upon the bed, and wrapped his arms around himself. 


	6. First Words

**\- You were correct, John has brought his gun. He stowed it under the mattress. MH**   
**\- Should I take it off him? GL  
** **\- No, leave it there for now. Do not try interfere until it is necessary. I will alert you if it appears that he is in danger of using it. Right now, the best thing you can do is make sure he eats something. MH  
** **\- I don’t have anything in, I don’t want to go shopping either.  
** **\- True, best not leave him and he’d hardly join you. I will have something sent to you. MH**

Greg scowled inwardly. His desire not to go shopping was not restricted to consideration of John. He himself didn’t want to go out and interact with people. The thought of going about his life as normal made his gut twist painfully. It was already strained enough with the constant tension and the absence of food. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he didn’t have anything in. He usually didn’t keep a whole lot in the house, since he sometimes would be called away for days at a moment’s notice. He’d offered what he did have to John, and he’d reluctantly taken some of it. Still, some carrots and a slice of bread wasn’t really enough food for a meal.

Thinking about food made Greg’s stomach pang painfully. It wasn’t ‘hunger’, more just pain and nausea. He figured some food would be good. Mostly he’d just been drinking what alcohol he could find in the house. 

He walked out of the bedroom and went to sit on the couch. It was a bit weird to sit there now that it was kind of John’s bedroom. The doctor didn’t indicate that he didn’t want Greg there, although he didn’t make much reaction to anything. He just lay there, facing him but looking into nothingness. Greg wanted to try get him talking a bit, mostly because he couldn’t stand the silence anymore. 

“Hey.” He started, trying to gauge where to take the conversation based on John’s reaction. There was nothing, and so Greg sighed. He figured he might as well say some things that were on his mind, since he hadn't been given the opportunity by anyone thus far. 

“Listen, I’m so very sorry for the role I played in all of this.” Greg spilled. He could see John’s eyes squint and his body tense.   
“I didn’t know what was going to happen, I had no idea how bad things were. I try tell myself that I was just doing my job, that I had to listen… but really I should have fought. I hate myself that I started to think Donovan might be right.”

“Good.” John grunted at him. Greg sunk further into a slump.   
“If I only could go back… I would…I’d…” Greg stuttered, his voice catching.   
“You can’t. No one can. He’s dead.” John said, resigned. 

There was a silence.   
“I’m just sorry.” Greg uttered helplessly.   
“You should be.” John grunted again, frowning. Greg tried to remember that John wasn’t being intentionally … devastating. The doctor sat up and looked directly at him angrily. At least there was finally some life in him.   
“You shouldn’t have tried to arrest him. You should have believed in him.” John growled, his voice raising.   
“I… did, believe me John, I did believe him.”  
“Doesn’t look like it, does it?”   
“I had to do what I was told…”  
“Then you should have quit!” John was shouting now.   
“I know!” Greg snapped back, trying hard not to get in an argument.   
“My best friend is dead because of you!” John shouted, pointing at Greg.   
“He was my best friend too!” Greg shouted, and stormed off. 

He slammed the door behind him once he got into the bedroom, but just leant his back against the door. He was panting, his chest tight, and his heart pounding. He let himself slide down the door so he was seated on the floor in a ball. He wrapped his arms around his knees, and cried. 

John stood in the lounge, rage still running through his veins. He could hear the sobs coming from the other side of the door. He knew he’d gone too far, that it wasn’t really all Greg’s fault. No, Mycroft had a much bigger role in it that Greg. But he couldn’t stop being angry at the detective. As the anger faded, he felt somewhat guilty. Greg’s words hit him: Sherlock had been his best friend too. John hadn’t really thought about it that way up until now. He sighed, and sat back down on the bed. He couldn’t stop being angry at Greg, but at least now he could appreciate that Greg wasn’t ok either. 

After a while, Greg’s sobs died down and he just sat on the floor breathing steadily. He relaxed his body, letting his legs stretch out. He knew John had a right to be angry, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be upset about it. He sighed to himself.   
_At least Mycroft will be happy that John did something other than mope in bed._

Greg banged his head on the door, a little unnerved that he didn’t feel it as much as he expected to, and got up. Before he could think of what to do next, he heard a knock on the front door. He shuffled out to answer it, careful not to catch John’s gaze. Sure enough, it was the food Mycroft had said he’d send. A woman stood there with a large bag that Greg assumed were groceries, and a smaller bag with what smelled like Chinese take-away. He gave a quick smile to the woman as he took the items, and she left.

Greg put the large bag on the bench, deciding to deal with that later. He instead pulled out the three containers of food: one fried rice, one a chicken and vegetable stirfy, and the other a beef stirfry in what seemed to be black bean sauce.   
“John, come get some food. You can still be angry at me and eat.” Greg said to the room divider. There was no response.   
“You know that Mycroft will have my head if you don’t eat.” Greg said, trying to lift the mood - but concerning himself that it might be somewhat true. 

There was still no response from the doctor, and so Greg spooned out a little of each onto a plate, and brought it over to him.   
“Look, mate, I know you don’t want to. But as a doctor can you at least appreciate that having just that little is needed?” Greg said as he put the plate on the coffee table. He left back to the kitchen to serve himself an equally small plate. He himself didn’t want food, but knew he had to. He took his plate with him to the bedroom. He felt like John would only eat if he was alone. 

After an hour, Greg re-emerged from his room with an empty plate, and put it in the sink. He walked over to John, and was pleased to see that the food had been eaten. Greg felt a little proud that he’d managed to get John to eat, but also a little sad that he had to make himself eat. No one cared if he wasn't eating for his own good. He pushed those thoughts aside as he rinsed John's plate and put it with his. 

“I did it for him, not you.” John spoke. 

Greg didn’t respond. He was depressed enough as it was, he didn’t want to anger John further. Instead, he walked to the bedroom where he curled up under the covers again. 


	7. Physical Care

In the morning, Mycroft arrived to take John to another therapy session. John was more agitated than last time, managing to insult Mycroft much more effectively. Greg wondered if it was because he now had the energy to do it from the meal last night. Mycroft stood there at the doorway seemingly unfazed, although Greg could see his composure stiffen and his brow furrow slightly. It would be difficult for him as well, and Greg found himself in the unique position of feeling sympathetic towards the elder Holmes. He surely was carrying a similar guilt as Greg was. 

Before long, John was ready to leave. He seemed to have calmed down, and walked out the door willingly with Mycroft… who nodded in Greg’s direction before leaving himself. Greg heard the car leave, and then he was alone. Again. 

Greg was tempted to take John’s gun. He sat on the couch staring at the bed for a while, trying to work out if it was better that way or not. In the end he had to agree with - or trust - Mycroft, and left it there. His body tensed when thinking about Mycroft. He suddenly felt that same anger as when he’d learnt what the British Government had done, coupled with some resentment that he was focusing solely on John’s wellbeing. Add to that his own overwhelming guilt and self hatred over what’d he’d done, and how bad he felt about being selfish enough to expect Mycroft to care about him. 

It was all getting too much for Greg to handle. He felt his muscles tense and shake in frustration. He stood, turned, and shouted as he punched the wall. The thin plaster gave way easily, but still caused Greg's hand pain. The sensation spread over his hand and up his wrist, and it snapped his attention out of the emotional turmoil. He calmed down, and saw what he’d done.   
_Good on you, Greg… just put a hole in the wall. Sure, that’ll solve everything._

Greg panted a few more times to catch his breath as he stared at the insulation peeking out of the hole. He stepped backwards, and was overwhelmed with different emotions. He fell to his knees, and thought he’d cry... but only a few tears fell. It was like he was too exhausted to cry much more. He just put his hand over his face and wiped the tears away. His hand stung again, and he focused on the pain. It seemed to actually help quell the emotions from overwhelming him. It was interesting to learn, as he’d never really understood why people harmed themselves. He’d encountered it often enough in his job, but it was just another passing detail. But as he knelt there, pain throbbing in his wrist and his emotions calmer again, he could finally understand it. 

Normally, he would ask John to have a look at his hand, since he’d be around anyway. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen, so considered just bandaging it himself. But he dismissed the idea as caring too much about himself when he didn’t deserve it.   
Greg stood back up, and went and got himself a drink. He winced as he opened the whiskey bottle.   
_Yeah that’d be my luck, to break my hand punching the wall._

Mycroft didn’t bring John back for another hour and a half. Greg wondered if there had been a problem with his session, but didn’t ask. Mycroft looked at the fist-sized hole in the wall, and raised an eyebrow at Greg. John noticed it as well, but didn't care. He just went and curled up on his bed. 

“As I informed John on the way here, Gregory, Sherlock’s funeral will be held on Wednesday next week. I will come and pick you both up.”  
“Oh. Right, thanks.”  
Mycroft nodded.   
“I’ll see you in two days, John.” Mycroft spoke to John, who just scowled at him. 

Mycroft left, and Greg walked and sat opposite John with his drink in his hand. Greg was aware he was drinking too much… well, too often… but he didn’t care. He really needed to feel the numbness. 

“How was it?” Greg asked. John shook his head. Greg didn’t know what to say. But after being alone for just those couple of hours, he wanted to feel like he had some company.   
“Why do you let Mycroft make decisions for you, but you won’t even talk to me?” Greg asked finally.   
“Because, Mycroft has the power to force me to do as he wishes regardless of what I want. Talking to you, or choosing not to, is entirely up to me.”  
“So you don’t talk to me because you want to feel in control of something?”   
“No, I don’t want to talk to you because of what you did. I just am able to maintain it, unlike with Mycroft.”  
“John, I am really sorry for what I did - but ignoring me isn’t going to change anything.”  
“I don’t care. I wouldn’t be around Mycroft either if I had the choice.” John said, looking at the floor.   
“You… don’t want to be around me?” Greg asked, but John just looked up with a scowl. That answered that question. Greg sighed deeply.   
“Very well. I mean you can go if you want.” Greg said, not just to give him the option, but to make him realise that it was either accept Greg’s hospitality or deal with Mycroft constantly. He sensed John understood.   
“No. I... ergh.” John said, sighing and grabbing the back of his neck. “Look, I’m going to be angry for a while. I ended up talking to Ella a bit today, and she said it was fine to be angry, but I shouldn’t disregard what you’re doing for me. And I think she’s right. You’re letting me stay here, and you don’t have to. I just… I hurt so much, Greg. I don’t know what to do, I feel so lost and trapped… and sometimes all I can feel is anger towards you when I think how this could have happened. I hadn’t realised that Sherlock was your best mate as well.” 

Greg sat there, listening intently. It was the most he’d heard from John since … yeah. It was nice to hear that he was at least a little bit appreciated.   
“Thank you.” Greg said. “I didn’t know many over at the Yard, and those that I do…I don’t want to see them again. Sherlock was really all I had as a mate, and since the divorce, the only person I had that wanted to be around me, aside from you. I don’t want to be alone, John.” 

John looked into the DI’s eyes, and saw him tear up. Greg breathed deeply and straightened up.   
“Well, how about we have more left overs?” Greg asked, changing the subject before he got too emotional.   
“Yeah, alright.” John agreed. 

Greg stood and moved to the kitchen, and opened the fridge to get out the containers. John stood and followed, indicating he was willing to sit and eat at the table. Either because he wasn’t as angry with Greg anymore and so could tolerate his company, or he’d found eating Chinese food in bed was rather difficult. Either way, Greg was glad. He pulled out the containers, and pain shot up from his hand. 

“Arg!” Greg shouted, and dropped the containers on the floor. “Erg, shit.”   
“Come here.” John spoke, instantly noticing need of his help.   
“It’s fine.” Greg mumbled, bending down to pick up the containers, which luckily, hadn’t spilled over the floor.   
“Don’t insult my skills. Come here.” John spoke sternly.   
“Right, sorry.” Greg said, and complied. 

He presented John with his right hand, and the doctor took it gently. Even if John was angry with him, his need to be a doctor was stronger. Greg realised that John Watson really was a doctor above all else. He turned the hand around, and prodded a few places. The knuckles were still red, but it was where John pressed in his wrist that elicited a painful hiss from the DI.   
“You might have a break in here. I’d suggest you go get it x-rayed.” John said.    


Before Greg could argue that he was fine, John had gotten up and walked into the bathroom.   
“Where’s your first aid kit?” John called.  
“It’s out here in the kitchen.” Greg responded. “Second cupboard from the left.”   
John found it with ease and brought it over. He opened it, and saw how meagre it was.   
“This wouldn’t be much help for anything serious.” John said, pulling out the (only) bandage. 

He ruffled about in the bag for a minute, before getting up and pulling out a fork from the drawer. He wrapped the prongs in the bandage, and then positioned it underneath Greg’s wrist. It was surprisingly effective as a splint, the bend resting over Greg’s palm. John then bandaged the wrist firmly.   
“Thanks, mate, it feels much better.”   
“It’s only temporary. Make an appointment to see your GP or go to the ER.” John instructed, looking at Greg with detachment. He nodded in response. 

Greg prepared (microwaved) their meals, and they sat at the table together. Both men just picked at the food, but slowly the majority on each plate was eaten. John stood then moved back to the bed, and Greg wondered if it was a signal that he wanted Greg not to sit on the couch so freely. The detective decided he could be reading too much into it, and just cleared away their plates. 

He then pulled out his phone to make an appointment with his doctor. Well, it could be any doctor. He hadn’t seen _his_ doctor for five years, so it really didn’t matter. But first, he decided to text Mycroft. Perhaps he could get a lift to the clinic when he picked up John for their sessions. 

 

**\- Mycroft, are you able to take me to a medical clinic when you pick up John for his session? GL**

**\- I believe I could arrange that. Which one? MH**

**\- I don’t know yet, it doesn’t matter - I’ll find somewhere that has a free slot in that time.**

**\- If you need to go to the doctor, Gregory, I can arrange someone to be in the flat any time. MH**

**\- I don’t understand Mycroft.**

**\- So that John is not left alone. I assume that is why you are trying to organise the time while he is otherwise occupied? MH**

 

Greg didn't really know what to respond. To say otherwise would be considered selfish, but it wasn't really true. He was just wanting to go without having to drive and potentially damaging his wrist further. If he made it at another time, Mycroft’s men would stay in the flat and he’d have to drive himself.

**\- Let me see if the clinic has an appointment at the time I need. GL**

Luckily, one of the doctors had an appointment at 9:30. He should be done there by the time that John was finished with his session, so could be dropped off and picked up. He texted Mycroft the address and time, and was glad that the British Government decided that he could indeed ‘chauffeur’ him about. 


	8. Close Call

Greg was uneasy. He sat in the chair trying to take up as little space as he could, without it being conspicuous. He had been dropped off at the doctor’s clinic early, and so was waiting with all the other patients. He didn’t like being around sick people in general, but since he didn’t want to be around anyone at all, being around the unwell was a bit overwhelming. He sat with his bandaged wrist on his lap to make sure people looking at him knew exactly why he was there. 

He knew that people wouldn't just assume he was there to talk about mental health, but he’d decided the night before that he would take advantage of the situation and mention it. He was having second thoughts, however. He could easily say nothing and just get the X ray request. But he knew that he had to be the one to take control of his situation. He didn’t have the luxury of the British Government taking care of everything for him. 

“Greg Lestrade, please." 

Greg looked up and saw an elderly woman call his name with a smile. He stood and followed her into the consult room. He sat on the seat that was facing the one that was at the desk. 

“What can I do for you today Greg?”

“Oh, um… my mate said I might have broken my wrist and suggested I go get some x-rays." 

“Alright, I’ll have a look. When did this happen?” The doctor asked calmly, and motioned to inspect Greg’s wrist. He extended his arm, and the doctor began to un-bandage it. 

“Two days ago.”

“Hm, if it was badly broken then you would - or rather, should - have gone to a hospital.”   
“Yeah, well, it’s not that bad.” Greg said, trying to smile as the doctor revealed his wrist. She gave him a curious look when she discovered the fork, but just put it down on the desk. 

“Hm, there's a bit of redness on the knuckles and swelling in the wrist. How did you injure it?”

Greg felt nervous, and took a moment before answering. 

“I … er… punched the wall.”

“Well, that was silly. I hope the wall had it coming.” The woman joked. “Now, does it hurt when I press here?” 

Greg nodded when she palpitated a few places in his wrist. 

“I agree that you should get some x-rays for it, I’ll write up a referral.” She spoke, and began typing at her computer. 

“Might I ask why you punched the wall?”

 

This was it. Greg felt sick to his stomach and tension in his chest. He had to be honest and open. 

“I…” Greg started, and cleared his throat. “I was upset.” 

“Does that happen often?” 

“Oh, um… no. Not the wall punching. It’s just… everything…just became overwhelming and I … just did it.” 

 

The doctor looked at him directly while the referral printed. 

“What exactly was overwhelming?”

“I haven’t…been coping … that well. My best friend, he… he committed suicide last week.” 

 

There was a silence as the doctor registered what was being said. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Greg. Have you been able to talk about it with anyone?”

“No. Not really. I mean John's been around, my friend, but he hasn't really been in much of a talking mood.” 

“John knew him too?”  
“Yeah, I guess better than me. I still don't know if they were dating or just friends, but they lived together. John's staying at mine for now.” 

 

The doctor nodded silently, understanding that that meant Greg wasn’t able to talk about things with his friend.

“Have you been sleeping?” 

“Yes… just… nightmares, so I don’t sleep long each time.” Greg admitted, his face going red. 

“Eating?”

“Not enough, I know. Just because I’m the one that has to make John eat, but I don’t want to either. Usually can manage a little bit though.”

“I understand that it can be difficult to manage the day to day after the sudden loss of someone, particularly if you have to be the one to care for another. I would like to refer you to a psychologist, just so you can have the space to talk about what’s going on for you, ok?”

Greg nodded. It was what he wanted, so he didn’t know why he felt so scared and ashamed. 

“Ok. Well, most places have a bit of a waiting list. Are you in this neighbourhood or would you like a different suburb?”

 

Greg said where he was living, but that he didn’t mind so much where he went. The doctor could tell he was uncomfortable, and so just picked a clinic that she knew had relatively short waiting lists. She printed out that referral too, and handed both referrals to him. 

“I would like you to go to the pharmacy and get a proper splint for that wrist. If it’s not broken, then you should be able to just wear the splint for a few days. I’ll have one of the girls at the desk give you a call once we get the results in.” 

“Great, thanks.” 

“I’ve emailed the referral to the psychologist’s clinic already, so you should be able to just call and make an appointment.”

“Thank you.”

“I would like to see you again in a month for a follow-up. Of course, you’re welcome to make an appointment earlier if things change.” 

 

The doctor smiled at him, and he thanked her again as he left - being told to take his fork with him. He did make another appointment for about a month’s time. He left the clinic and sat on the bench outside as he waited for Mycroft. 

 

**\- I have to go get an x-ray done. GL**

**\- We will go on the way home. We will be there in 15 minutes. MH**

**\- Doctor said I needed to get a splint from the pharmacy.**

**\- Very well. MH**

 

* * *

 

Luckily, Greg’s wrist hadn’t been broken. Mycroft had (slightly begrudgingly) taken him to the x-ray clinic and the pharmacy before dropping them both off back at the flat. 

John had obviously had an emotional session, as he didn’t say a word to either himself or Mycroft since Greg got into the car. Normally he at least had it in him to scowl or grunt an insult Mycroft’s way. Deciding he needed space, Greg just stayed in his bedroom. He heard crying through the open bedroom door, and some words John said amongst his sobs. Greg stuck his head out of the door to hear them better, just in case he was being called for. 

 

“Sherlock.” John uttered between breaths. “I’m so sorry.” 

Greg knew he shouldn’t listen, but he saw that John was laying on his bed with what appeared to be his gun. So, he wasn’t about to leave him unsupervised. 

“I am a failure of a doctor for not seeing the signs sooner. I am a failure as a friend for not stopping you.”

 

**\- Mycroft, John appears to have his gun with him while he’s apologising to Sherlock. Do I do something? GL**

 

Greg texted quickly, trying to keep an eye on John. 

“I can’t help but feel I was the last straw when I called you a machine the last we spoke before…the phone call…” John sobbed.

 

**\- I am watching now, and will call if you need to step in. MH**

 

Greg saw John sit up, and look at his gun which rested in his hand on his lap. Greg’s heart hammered in his throat, but he was careful to make no noises. 

“I don’t know what to do now, Sherlock. Everything good in my life gets taken away.” 

Greg inched closer, as silently as possible. 

“I can almost hear you, saying I am being stupid feeling like this, holding this… but you actually did it Sherlock.” 

Greg started to feel lightheaded from not enough oxygen. 

 

“I just can’t. I’m sorry.” John wept. 

Greg was ready to leap out, but John tossed the weapon away. Greg stopped moving, now mostly out of the bedroom. 

“The last time I was shot, I remember clearly feeling that begging to live. I told you once. I know I can’t do it again. I mean…” John sniffled, “it would be so _easy_ , and I know where it’d be painless. But I just can’t do it still because of that time… I hope you don’t think I’ve let you down.” John said. 

 

The tension in Greg’s body lifted. He was left shaking. That had been a tense moment. He slunk back into the bedroom where he let himself make noise by breathing. Everything was getting a little too real for him, and he’d run out of alcohol. His eyes flickered down to his wrist, still in the splint, and remembered what pain had done for him last time he was overwhelmed. 

He didn’t want to punch any more walls, and besides, he wasn't feeling overwhelmed with anger. He walked into the bathroom instead, and clasped his hands onto the basin, looking at himself in the mirror. His mind was trying to fight the impulse to harm himself, but it wasn't succeeding that well. He noticed he looked surprisingly ok considering the week he’d had. Some bags under the eyes, but that was about it. He sighed to himself. He’d expected the internal turmoil to show a bit more. 

_What does it matter if I harm myself - no one would care, and it’s not like I don’t deserve it._

Greg gave up caring to fight the impulse and left the bathroom to collect his knife from his room. He slipped it into his pocket, and then walked into the kitchen to get a dressing from the first aid kit. He used the pretence of getting a glass of water, and made a note to avoid looking at John, before returning to the bathroom. 

He pulled out the knife. He wasn’t sure exactly how it all was supposed to work - it seemed as if the underside of the wrist was too dangerous a place to cut just for some pain. Instead, he elected to cut on top. He was about to cut on top of his left arm, when he noticed that the splint he had on his right covered up half way of his arm. 

_A perfect hiding place_. 

He swapped hands, and undid the splint’s velcro straps to reveal his skin. He slowly dragged the blade horizontally, pain rushing out. It took a moment for the blood to appear, and it was only enough to fill the line and not bead up over it - the wound was very shallow, like a scrape. But it sufficed enough to cause the pain Greg needed, and he found something oddly satisfying at seeing his own blood. It was like a signal he could actually see of the hurt inside himself. All of that intangible nonsense swirling about his brain actualised in one simple thing: bleeding. 

Greg breathed deeply and wiped the wound. He dressed it with a plaster, and then put the splint back on. 

_And no one will ever know._


	9. Thinking of Moving Forward

It was the day of Sherlock’s funeral. John had seen Ella the day before to prepare himself, and Greg thought that it had helped. The doctor was more relaxed than Greg expected, and more interactive. 

Mycroft would arrive soon, so they were both getting the last of their things ready. Greg had put on his black suit and tie, and John wore his normal black jacket with some slacks. Unfortunately for Greg, he’d needed to take off the splint to wear his suit. It was time for it to come off anyway, and while his wrist did feel much better, his self-harming could now be seen. He’d found that cutting had been a good way to cope, and it had almost become routine in the small time it had been happening. Greg had taken care of the wounds well, and so only bandaging could be seen on his arm, but it wouldn’t have been a difficult deduction to work out what was happening. He just resigned himself into wearing only long sleeves. 

When the British Government arrived, he too was in a black suit, complete with waistcoat. Greg thought that it would be ridiculous that Mycroft wore anything else, considering ‘suit’ was his normal attire. 

 

~

 

The service had gone as expected. Greg had said a few words, unable to say much more without choking up. John had tried, but became too emotional and used his military training to squash everything down - and so his words became too detached. 

As the people left, Greg saw that John and Mrs Hudson remained behind at the tombstone. He waited for John a distance away, giving the man some space. As he watched Mrs Hudson walk away, he felt overwhelmingly sad at the sight of John and the tombstone. The doctor awkwardly touched it, and was obviously trying to get out his last personal words despite how distraught he felt. Greg was glad that he couldn’t hear them. 

John cried, and then straightened himself up in military fashion again. Greg could understand the need to control himself while out in public, even if he didn’t think it was the best idea to shove all the emotions away. Greg nodded to John as he walked up to him, and followed as John walked straight past. 

They were surprised to find that Mycroft had already left without them, but had arranged for another car to take them home. Personally, Greg was thankful that he didn’t have to interact with the elder Holmes again for the day. He couldn’t be sure, given Mycroft’s stoic nature and his usual façade, but Mycroft didn’t seem to be all that sincere when talking about his brother. To Greg, he looked more worried than upset. But the DI tried to just tell himself it was nothing, that Mycroft truly did care about his brother and just needed to let his emotions out alone. Hell it’d explain why they'd been left behind. 

“You did good today.” Greg spoke to John while still looking out of the window.  
“Thanks.” John said sullenly, also looking out of his window.   
“I’m sure if he could have heard you, he’d have been happy.” Greg said.   
“If he could have… he wouldn’t still be gone.”

The rest of the car ride was done in silence. It had been an exhausting day. Before long, they were back in the flat, dressed in comfortable clothes once again.  
“I’m gonna make some of these frozen dumplings. I dunno how they’ll turn out. Do you want chicken, prawn, or both?” Greg asked, holding up two packets of pre-made frozen dumplings.   
“Both I guess.” John answered. Greg nodded and put a pan on the stove. 

John sat on his bed with his face in his hands while Greg prepared the food. He was glad the funeral was over and done with as it had given him a sense of closure. It was daunting to think of ‘moving on’, but he at least felt like he’d done all that he could for Sherlock now. 

“They're ready." Greg said as he put two plates on the table. When there was no response, Greg walked over to the divider and stuck his head around the corner.   
“John?” He asked to the doctor, still sitting on the bed.   
“What do I do now, Greg?” John asked, fighting tears.   
“Oh, John.” Greg uttered as he moved around to sit beside him on the bed. 

Greg reached out and held the man close, rubbing his arm gently. The funeral had been emotionally difficult on him, and of course, John. They hadn’t had a wake, Mycroft insisting that Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted that. It was true, of course, but it didn’t help the attendees much. 

“I don’t know. Just, get by. Go day to day until it gets easier to think of doing something else.” Greg said, knowing that’s what he’d tell himself.  
“What if it doesn’t? And what else could I be doing after everything we…”   
“I know, John, I know. And I don’t have an answer, can only say that I hope it does get better. You still have your job at the clinic, so maybe that will help you distract yourself for a while until you… you know, can think about what you _want_ to do. Don’t have to know it all right now, mate.” Greg said, gripping harder onto John for a bit.   
“What you do have to do, now, though, is come have some food.”

John nodded and stood up with Greg. They ate in silence again, but it was a different kind of silence. There wasn’t that tension there anymore, and Greg hoped that it meant that the doctor had forgiven him. John had been more open and less … reactive… to being touched since the last session with Ella. Maybe John wouldn't ever forget, or stop hurting form it, but he seemed to forgive.

 

~

 

Greg woke in the night, as usual. However this time it was more of a violent awakening, and he had to take a moment to calm himself. His mind swirled around, trying to make sense of the dream. He tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter, that it was just a dream. But this one seemed to have more real-world worries in it. 

Normally, Greg’s nightmares would involve his actions leading up to Sherlock’s suicide. Sometimes he was just watching it happen, other times he was a part of events. They rarely played out as things had actually happened. It was always more a manifestation of his guilt and loss. But this time, it was more about going back to work. 

 

_In the dream, John had left his place to find somewhere else to live. He’d been left alone, and Mycroft had no longer responded to his texts. He had gone back to the office, only to find he’d been demoted. Donovan and Anderson were now his superiors, and they demanded he work hard on their ridiculous cases. Sherlock would appear randomly as a hallucination, and just tell him that the work was wrong. But there was nothing he could do about it. Donovan had ordered him to publicly admit that he was wrong to trust Sherlock, and if he refused, then he’d be fired. Apparently, the Yard didn’t want to make it seem like they were incompetent and somehow insisting that it was a mistake to listen to Sherlock at all was how they wanted to show it. He’d posted it, and he saw Sherlock again, standing in the corner. He looked so sad, so disappointed._

_“Sherlock - I have no choice, I can’t lose my job, it’s all I have left.” He’d tried to plead with the hallucination, but it was to no avail. Suddenly John was there, demanding to never see or hear from him again. That the public admission was the last straw. Greg had managed to hide under his desk, but John rounded over him and was shouting about never trusting Sherlock._

_“John, I couldn’t have done anything - quitting would have taken it out of my hands, then I couldn’t have done ANYTHING to help him!” Greg tried to rationalise.  
_ _“You insult his memory.” John said, and then he was gone._

_Next thing Greg knew, the office was empty and dark. It was all he had left._

_“I did everything I could, for what I thought was the best… and then this …” Greg had told himself in the darkness. He was ignored, alone, and left in a job that humiliated him. Greg had then taken out his gun, put it to his head, and fired._ It was then he’d jolted awake. 

Greg sat up and put his head in his hands. Maybe it had been the funeral, and thoughts of moving on, that had brought up all these fears. He got out of bed, walked to the bathroom, and splashed water in his face. He took a deep breath and looked at himself in the mirror. He wanted to tell himself that it’ll be ok, but he honestly didn't feel like it would be. His dream had actualised a lot of his hidden fears, and now that he had a vivid memory of it, they seemed to be pressing a lot harder down upon him. 


	10. Appointments

Greg hadn’t managed to sleep again. He’d stayed up, laying in bed with his eyes open. He did get up and check on John once. The doctor had been tossing in his sleep, but nothing too violent. Greg decided to leave him rest. 

He waited until seven to text Mycroft. He’d wanted to find out about his job straight after the dream, but decided that it wasn’t the best idea to bother the British Government in the early hours of the morning.

**\- Mycroft, when am I expected back at work? GL**

**** Greg phrased it like he didn’t think he was fired. He just hoped it wasn’t true. He found himself staring at his phone, waiting for a response.

**\- You have been exempted from working until Monday. I was going to discuss this with you later today when I pick John up for his appointment. I will see you in an hour and a half. MH**

Greg nodded to his phone. He wasn’t aware that John had an appointment today.   
_Great, now they’re not even bothering to include me in their plans.  
_ Greg scolded himself. He wasn’t really involved in their lives, and there was no real need to include him in John’s therapy appointments. Not when they just left him behind… alone… 

Greg shook his head. He wondered if he should call the clinic the doctor referred him to. He knew he should, but at the same time, felt uneasy with making the phone call. Part of him felt guilty still over what happened, and therefore believed he shouldn’t get help as a form of punishment. The other part was depressed when thinking that if he didn’t make the effort to help himself, no help would come. And he was thinking that he did at least need a little help. 

He got out of bed, and got dressed. He wouldn’t be able to make the call until after Mycroft took John. He had some time to plan out what he was going to say. 

Greg had made some toast for himself and John. They had just finished when Mycroft arrived.   
“Good morning, Gregory, John.” Mycroft greeted. Greg saw the flicker of a scowl from John, but it only lasted a moment.   
“Hey Mycroft.” Greg said, his tone flat.   
“Why so early, Mycroft?” John grumbled.   
“I need to discuss Gregory’s return to Scotland Yard. I allowed some extra time to do so.” Mycroft spoke, unfazed by John’s harsh tone. 

“Fine.” John grumbled, and sat on his bed. Greg motioned to the seat near him at the dining table. Mycroft eyed it for a moment, as if considering whether he should bring himself down to the level of the ‘common folk’. He then walked in and took the seat. 

“I originally had requested you have a month off, which would bring your return to this Monday.”  
Greg huffed at Mycroft, who raised an eyebrow questioningly.   
“Requested.” Greg repeated, making air quotes with his hands. Mycroft gave him a cheeky grin.   
“Indeed. Well, what I needed to know from you is if you are capable of returning to your job, or if I need to ‘request’ more time.” 

Greg noted Mycroft’s use of the word ‘capable'. It made him feel like his entire worth was summed up in his ability to carry out his job. It wasn’t if he 'felt' able to return, or if he was ‘comfortable’ to return, hell, it wasn't even if he was ‘ready’. It was just if he was ‘capable’. 

“Have I offended you, Gregory?” Mycroft enquired, noting the expressions on Greg’s face. Greg had forgotten how easily the elder Holmes read him, and remembered the last time Mycroft had asked him that question. Only that time, he’d called him ‘detective inspector’. He felt like he had become a lot closer to Mycroft since then, and Mycroft seemed to also feel it - enough to call him by his first name, at least. 

“No, no… it’s…fine.” Greg managed to get out. His emotions were building up inside him and it was getting difficult to speak.   
“Very well. So, shall I inform your superior that you will be in attendance on Monday?”   
“Um, yeah, sure, why not. I’m not doing anything here anyway.” Greg responded, aware that the emotional wave was actually becoming more of a panic. He tried hard to keep it together.   
“Good. I will ‘recommend’ that you are restricted to light duty for the next few weeks.” Mycroft spoke, giving the same cheeky grin when saying ‘recommend’. Greg didn’t know it, but Mycroft was actually being rather playful. For him, at least. 

“Are you ready, John?” Mycroft spoke as he stood, turning to the room divider.   
“Yeah.” John grumbled, walking out of the door.   
Mycroft smiled and inclined his head to Greg, before following John. 

Greg frowned to himself. Mycroft seemed far too happy for someone that just lost their brother. Especially when it was largely his fault.   
_Mycroft is trained to never show emotion. That façade is part of his job, no doubt he’d use it to conceal his inner turmoil._

Greg knew this, he repeated it to himself, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that Mycroft wasn’t as upset as he should be. He still seemed more worried or stressed than depressed - and he only could make that out from years of work as a detective. He sighed to himself, he was probably reading far too much into it. 

The realisation then hit him: he had to return to work in only four days. Four days, and he’d be stuck with Anderson and Donovan again. Anger flooded through his body. He’d also have to be around, and at the mercy of, the Chief Superintendent. He harboured a great deal of resentment towards the man for making him arrest Sherlock. Knowing that it was his job, and he was following protocol, didn’t quell the hatred. He hadn't needed to call him a ‘bloody idiot’.

Greg groaned. He put his hands over his face.   
“What am I gonna do?” He grumbled to himself. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there. He was brought out of his thoughts by his phone ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket, and didn’t recognise the number. He wasn’t really interested in dealing with telemarketers or anyone really, but answered none the less.   
“Hello?” He asked, foregoing his usual salutation including his name and title.   
“Hello, I’m calling for Greg Lestrade.” A woman’s voice spoke.   
“Speaking.” Greg said shortly.   
“Oh hi there, I’m Amy from the Greenfield clinic. We received a referral from your doctor for you to see one of our psychologists.”  
“Oh, yes, hello.”   
“Well, I’m just ringing to confirm that we have received the referral, and to let you know that one of our team is available to see you from next week. Would you like to make an appointment, or did you have a specific person you would like to see?”  
“No, anyone is fine, I guess…” Greg mumbled.   
“Great, well in that case, how about we make an appointment to see Imogen McMillan?” Amy’s chipper voice called out rather loudly. Greg didn’t know why it made him upset.   
“Yeah, sure.”   
“Ok, well she has an appointment at 2:15 on Tuesday. How does that sound?”  
“Fine." Greg said, sounding uninterested. He really was just very anxious and trying not to let it show.   
“Ok, Greg, that one’s booked in. Please arrive a little early so that we can get some paperwork filled out first. See you then!"   
“Ok, bye.”

Well, that had been fairly easy. Then he remembered that he started work on Monday.  
“Arg, fuck.” Greg grumbled, and face-planted the table. 


	11. Session

Greg sat nervously in the waiting room. His leg twitched involuntarily, and he locked attention on any movement that happened around him. He was about to the psychologist for the first time, and while the lady at the desk had been friendly, he was still terrified. He didn’t even really know why. 

He still couldn’t believe that he was actually there. Mycroft had raised his eyebrow when Greg had told him why he’d need some time off only on the second day. It had made him feel extremely guilty, and fully expected to need to change the appointment. But Mycroft had simply said ‘of course’, in that practised manner he always did, and before Greg knew it, here he was.

His first day back had been better than he’d expected. He hadn’t been demoted, and the Chief Super hadn’t said a word to him. Greg was fairly confident Mycroft had something to do with that, and was rather grateful. Donovan and Anderson were their annoying selves, but seemed to at least be respectful enough not to be overly obnoxious, and leave him alone for most of the day. 

Never the less, Greg was still afraid of things unravelling quickly in the workplace. And he couldn’t deny that he would probably be the cause of it; his colleagues had enraged him from their mere presence, and so Greg knew it wouldn’t be long before he snapped and caused an incident. 

“Greg?”  
Greg looked up. A tall blonde woman stood before him, smiling down at him.   
“Hi, I’m Imogen. Please, come this way.” 

Greg had just nodded in response, and followed her into a room down the hall. It was fairly simple; an abstract painting on the wall, a brick wall with an unused fireplace, a desk with a laptop, and two chairs facing both the entrance and each other. It looked… _cosier_... than the stark professional atmosphere Greg had pictured. Imogen indicated to the seat near the fireplace, and took the one near the desk. 

“So, I got a referral from your GP for you to come here. She mentioned that you were having a bit of difficulty lately, and I hope that you can have some space here to talk about it and that I can help you.”  
“Um, ok.” Greg muttered, still unable to stop his leg from shaking a bit.   
“You seem rather nervous, Greg. Is this your first time seeing a psychologist?”  
“Kinda. I mean, once, ages ago, when I was married, I was kinda forced to go see a couples therapist… but, you know, that was different… it wasn’t really about me.” 

Imogen nodded, picking up the digital tablet from the desk to her right and writing a note. Greg eyed her suspiciously.   
“Don’t worry, Greg, these are just notes to help me remember our sessions better. I’m not going to be writing mean things about you - just reminders of the topics and thoughts I might have to help with them.”   
“…ok.” Greg mumbled, still not entirely convinced.   
“Just to be clear about a few things to you, since I can see you might be uncertain about a few things - I’m not going to be here judging you, or telling you what to do with your life or the things in it. All I want to do is provide you with a safe space to talk about things on your mind. I can offer advice, and my own thoughts on the matter at hand, and maybe even give you some tips for you to try out in order to manage better. But ultimately, these sessions are yours, and directed by you. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. The more you tell me how you want to be helped, the easier I can hopefully make it all for you. Please don’t be afraid.” 

Greg nodded, some of his questions being answered. He was appreciative of Imogen’s direct information.   
_I should probably tell her that._

“I appreciate you being direct with me. I like to know what’s going on. I don’t like to feel like I’m being manipulated…” Greg said, his voice trailing off, thinking about the man whom manipulated him most. Pain stabbed him in the chest uncomfortably thinking about Sherlock. 

“Good to know. I definitely don’t want to manipulate you, Greg.”  
“I...er... I know I kinda chose to be here, but I honestly don’t have a clue what I’m doing, or how this is supposed to work... and I’m not so good at just bringing things up. I guess being asked questions helps.” 

Imogen nodded and smiled, noting it down on her tablet.

“Well, as I said, you can talk about anything you wish here. But I do want to try help with some of the problems you are having, so talking a bit about those would be good. When did you notice that you were starting to struggle with things?”

Greg shifted uncomfortably. How was he supposed to begin? Imogen at least had directed him to a specific idea, which he appreciated, but how to bring it up? He took a big sigh.   
_I guess she’d be at least used to people just blurting things out and having it not make sense sometimes._

“Noticed…I, I dunno, I wasn’t really … with it, for a bit… after…” Greg said, struggling to make sense of it himself, and feeling panicked with the pressure of having to articulate it all. Imogen just said there, looking at him patiently.  
“… after Sherlock…” Greg got out, and then had to look away.   
“Who is Sherlock?”

Greg looked at her calm, kind expression. She obviously had no idea what pain thinking about him caused.   
_Well of course she doesn’t, you haven't told her yet, you idiot.  
_ “He ... he was my best friend.”  
“Was?”  
“He… died. Suicide.”  


Imogen’s expression changed to sympathetic, but not a feigned sympathy. Greg appreciated that at least.   
“I’m so sorry to hear about that, Greg.” She said softly. Greg nodded.   
“It was … sudden, and… and it was partly my fault.”   
“Suicide is complicated, Greg, and even if we think that we've done things that either didn’t validate the other as much as we should have in hindsight, that doesn’t mean we caused it to happen."  
“It’s not like that. I… actually am partially to blame for the situation that lead him to it.”  
“How so?”  


Greg sighed, how was he to explain this?  
“Do you know him? Sherlock, I mean. The detective. He has been in the papers quite often.”   
“I may have in passing, but I don’t pay that much attention to current events if I'm being honest. And besides, I would rather hear it from you. The media tends to get things a bit… mixed up.”   
“You can bloody say that again.” Greg grumbled. 

“What happened, Greg?” Imogen asked directly.  
“Sherlock worked on solving cases. Murder cases, usually, and the odd kind. He was brilliant - and a bit of an arrogant bastard at times.” Greg chuckled at the flood of memories. “He used to enjoy poking fun at me by ‘forgetting’ my name, and acting like he was being truthful. But the manhad an eidetic memory, and could remember a floor plan by glancing at it. Still, John never really understood the joke. It was nice, to have a thing just me and him after John came along…”   
“And John was, who?” Imogen asked politely in the pause.   
“Sherlock's … partner. I never really knew if they were in a relationship or just best mates, solving crimes together.”   
“And this John, do you know him well?”  
“Yeah, he is a good mate. Or was, I don’t know if he still thinks of me as a friend.”  
“Why not?”

“Because of what I did … he's been rather distraught over the loss, and has been hostile towards me. I think he still blames me for it in a way, but at least has moved past insulting me and shouting. Kinda like he has just accepted that’s what happened, and like he isn’t super angry at me… but like he’ll never forget.”   
“Grief can make people see things differently, place blame where there isn’t any, and cause them to lash out in a means of coping. That doesn’t mean they’re right, Greg.” Imogen pointed out. 

“Maybe. But I… see, I’m a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard. I was the one that would give cases to Sherlock. We’d worked together for years before John came along. Though, since Sherlock wasn’t with the Yard, it wasn’t strictly … approved. As I said, he was brilliant and solved so many cases beyond my team. But in the end, the Chief Superintendent did not appreciate his involvement.” Greg explained, and gulped. Time to get to the events - without giving away classified information. 

“So, this case came up. And Sherlock… he was exceptional. So much so that it was unbelievable - to my team, at least. I trusted Sherlock, but they had their doubts. They presented me with evidence to support their claims, that Sherlock had staged it all. That HE was the criminal, and committing the crimes just to make himself look good. I didn’t want to believe it, but I… I …listened. Their concerns had real evidence that I couldn’t ignore as a DI, and so I had no choice but to take the matter to the Chief. He was not happy with me, and ordered me to arrest Sherlock. I didn’t want to, I even called ahead and told them I was coming, which technically was illegal. But I didn’t fight against the orders. I carried them out - I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought that by doing as I was told, I would at least still be able to have some control of the situation, that I could still help somehow. If I'd argued, I’d have been dismissed, and then it would have been out of my hands. But I should have.”

Greg put his head in his hands, tears appearing in his eyes. Imogen didn’t really want to say anything, so that Greg could get it all out in one go. 

“So he and John ran. The press got wind of it all, the … criminal, he came to one of them, a real snide one at that, and told her ... the lies. Well, it was just really one: Sherlock was a fraud. But Sherlock’s brother had made the mistake of telling the criminal about Sherlock, and his life… and so he - the criminal - twisted it all up so that most of the story was true, so that everyone would believe it. So the Yard was convinced Sherlock was a criminal, and the public believed every god damned lie printed to them… that Sherlock was a fraud. His reputation was shattered. He was on the run. He still faced the wrath of this criminal that had it out for him. And so … he jumped.” 

Greg had somehow managed to get the words out, but was left fighting tears. Imogen said nothing about it, but pushed a tissue box closer to him.   
“You see… it actually is partly my fault. Mycroft - Sherlock’s brother - had his part in it all, but I had the rest.”

“Greg… you weren’t to know what was going to happen. You had to do what you did. You said it yourself, you had Sherlock’s best interests at heart the whole time. You can’t blame yourself for his death." 

“John said I should have quit.”  
“John’s hurting too, and doesn’t really understand that he’s causing you pain in what he says. Try not to believe the guilt he’s throwing on you.” Imogen said sternly, and continued to write on her tablet.   
  
“I don’t know what to do now though. My job isn’t enjoyable anymore - I mean, I’ve only been back for a day and a half, but it’s not the same, and I’m constantly afraid of … worse … happening.”   
“Like what?”  
“Incidents between myself and the others of my team. Donovan and Anderson in particular. They were the ones that brought up their suspicions, and made me go to the Chief. I feel so angry around them, I just know I’m going to snap soon and it’ll get me demoted, or even fired. Then I’ll have nothing.”

“Ok, a couple of things about that. Firstly, that anger you feel towards them… they likely were just doing their jobs as you were, and even if they weren’t supportive of Sherlock as you were, they probably didn’t intend for things to play out as they did. I don’t know if you can see that what you’re experiencing around them is the same as what John would have been experiencing around you. I hope you can understand that it’s not a rational thought process that causes the anger… it just happens in grief, and you lash out without thinking. I don’t expect you to suddenly be stronger than grief and not feel that anger, I’m just trying to help you see that John’s resentment towards you is the same and not reason for you to hate yourself over your involvement.” 

Greg looked at her, his mind racing with the realisation. He’d never connected the dots before, and suddenly really could understand John’s position a lot better. It didn’t stop him hating himself though. 

“Second,” Imogen continued, “Is that you won’t have nothing. You still have John, that’s a positive, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”  
“It's complicated.” Greg grumbled.   
“How so?”  
“Well… I like having him around. He’s staying in my flat with me still, ever since … yeah. John and Sherlock lived together, but he can’t face being there without Sherlock… and so he’s been staying on a bed in my living room that Mycroft sent over. It has hurt that Mycroft has spent so much time and energy making sure John is safe and coping well enough, and I’ve been completely ignored. I mean yes, John deserves attention, I’m not saying he doesn’t… but it’s been hard on me, too. And yet I’m never asked how I’m going, and just expected to take care of John. I’ve not had the energy to eat anything myself, but I have to still provide food for John so that Mycroft is satisfied. I end up forcefully taking care of myself by proxy from caring for him.”

“That’s rather noble of you Greg. Not a lot of people would be there that much for their friends, even if they themselves weren’t struggling.”  
Greg looked up at her.   
“John will no doubt want to leave soon. And then I'll be alone, and have nothing but my job. And what am I supposed to do with that now that Sherlock’s gone, and there’s just tension around me from above and below?”

Imogen thought for a moment.   
“I don’t know Greg. I would like to believe that the tension you described is less than what you think, but I can’t comment on that as it sounds like it was a rather big issue. But I can say that I will be here for you to talk to, and ask how you’re doing, even if no one else is.” 

She smiled at him hopefully. Greg knew she was just trying to be nice, but the comment irked him. He couldn’t forget that she was being _paid_ to listen to him. He knew that everyone needed to make a living doing something, but it still wasn’t the same as a friend caring about him of their own free will.  
 _I only have one friend left, and he doesn't care about how I’m doing._

Greg sat a listened to Imogen talk a little. He didn’t talk much more… explaining that much had drained him; and the depression overwhelmed him thinking about John, his only surviving friend, not caring about him.


	12. Leaving

Greg’s first week back had been rather awful. He’d snapped at Donovan multiple times, and Anderson a few times as well. Overall he’d been trying to avoid them, but it was sometimes necessary to be in their company for lengths of time. He knew afterwards that they'd not really deserved it, but deep down he felt like they should suffer for their role in Sherlock’s death. 

The work had been boring. Not the usual kind of boring, where he’d begrudgingly do it anyway; it was the Sherlock-kind of boring where it was not remotely interesting and therefore he felt no need to be involved in it. He was surprised to finally understand why Sherlock refused to get involved in so many of the cases brought to him. Beforehand, Greg had always thought that even if it wasn’t _challenging_ , it would still be something to do at least. But that was back when he had an interest in his work. Now, he completely understood Sherlock refusing to do anything that he wasn't interested in. It was just… _pointless._

Greg hadn’t been let out of the office in the whole week. He had to finish off paperwork that had built up in his time away, but even so, it was strange that he wasn’t invited along to crime scenes. In fact, he’d explicitly been told not to go. Greg felt cooped up in his small office, and was left wondering if it was because of Mycroft’s orders of ‘light duty’, or because the Super had it out for him. 

If he was honest with himself, he was considering quitting. He found no enjoyment anymore, and it just caused him a whole lot of stress being there. Being around the people that first questioned Sherlock, being around the people above him who had a clear disdain for him now, being forced to partake in things he couldn’t bring himself to focus on. It was all a bit much. But, he’d kept quiet, done as he was told, and tried to remind himself that it was only the first week. 

Greg had been unsurprised to find out that John still had time off from his job, and that Mycroft had arranged for someone to be around the house with the doctor while Greg was at work. The detective felt a little jealous of John’s care, and a bit spiteful that he wasn’t being considered. But the feelings were fleeting. Really, most of what he felt all the time was just defeat. He didn’t seem to feel angry at anything anymore, he didn’t feel the hurt from John’s words, he didn’t feel resentment (much) over the fussing done over John while he was left to fend for himself all the while caring for John. He of course said nothing to anyone, as he knew the moment he did John would leave. Greg knew that being alone would be worse for him than having to deal with his own selfish emotions.

Greg put the plate of chicken and rice down for John on the dinner table. He’d been slowly increasing the size of the meals over the past month, and so now they were both eating enough to be considered ‘normal’. Greg didn’t like that his body had once again gotten used to the amount of food, causing him to be annoyingly hungry if he ate less again. He sighed to himself and called for John. 

The doctor came and sat down in his usual spot. Greg brought over some water in glasses and seated himself.   
“Thanks.” John said, and started eating. Greg was glad that he’d gotten used to it.   
Greg nodded in response, and started his meal. He'd not spoken that much since starting work again. He didn't know if John had noticed, or if he’d liked the change. Honestly, Greg didn’t care. He didn’t care about much anymore. 

“Greg?” John spoke, and the detective looked up from his food.   
“I’m leaving tomorrow.” John said bluntly, and Greg almost dropped his fork.   
“I mean, I can’t stay here forever. Now that you’re back at work, it’s too awkward. I’m going to try stay at Baker Street, but if that doesn’t work out, then I’ll find somewhere else. It’s been long enough now… I think it’ll be ok…”

Greg barely registered what John was saying. It was happening…. not exactly like his nightmares, but close enough. His work was terrible and he was being abandoned entirely.   
“Ok.” Greg managed to say, trying to hide his distress. 

He was so conflicted inside. He hated looking after John while getting no consideration for himself, but at the same time, he was glad that he could help a friend. He was glad that being forced to care for John had resulted in him taking better care for himself, and he was worried that that would all fall apart once John left. And he was upset that no one would even know, let alone care, about him falling apart once John was gone. 

Greg tried to resist panting. He’d spent most of the week feeling numb again; completely flat and depressed and like nothing mattered, but like there was nothing else to feel… and so not feeling anything in response to the input of the world. But it seemed to all crash over him at this moment. He tried to hide it, but he was sure his worry was visible to John. He had to get out, he had to try cope. 

“Excuse me.” Greg mumbled, and promptly left the table. 

John watched as Greg hurried to the bathroom. He’d noticed that the detective seemed to be distressed, but he couldn’t work out why. He looked back at his food, and continued eating. John told himself that perhaps Greg had eaten something that disagreed with him - because he surely wasn’t upset by finally being alone again. 

Greg gripped the basin with both hands, and looked himself in the eye in the mirror. He tried hard to stop his muscles shaking. Taking deep breaths, he took out his knife. He looked at the blade intensely, and mentally prepared for the pain that was to come. But it didn’t feel the same. He looked at the shining metal, but felt no sense that relief was going to come. The other times he’d come to this point, he felt calmer just looking at the blade and knowing what was about to happen. He’d never cut deeply, only just enough to see some blood run. 

He sighed to himself, and threw the knife into the bath tub. It wasn’t going to help him this time, he knew it. Instead, he sank to the floor and leant his back up against the bath. He brought his knees in close to his chest. The cold hard floor didn’t bother him. 

The wave of panic subsided, and he was left feeling nothing but depression. It was a cold ice that had dragged his insides down into a dark pit, and he didn’t have the energy to even question being down there, let alone try to fight to get out. It was strange how well ‘depression’ killed ‘anxiety’. 

“I guess this is how it is, then.” Greg mumbled to himself. He got up, flushed the toilet as to pretend he’d been using it. He wet his hands and splashed the cold water in his face. He wiped himself up, and rejoined John for dinner. 

Greg mumbled an apology, and was glad there were no further questions about his absence. He started eating again, more out of requirement as his appetite was gone again. 

“Mycroft has insisted to help find me a new place if I can’t stay at Baker Street." John said, trying to continue the conversation.   
Greg huffed to himself. _Of course he has.  
_ “That’s good of him.” Greg grumbled.   
“I didn’t want him to. I don’t want his help... he’s only doing this to assuage his guilt.”   
“You don’t want to help him feel forgiven?” Greg asked, more curious as to how it meant for him as well.   
“No. I don’t think I will ever be able to forgive him for what he did.” John said with a frown.   
“But Sherlock was his brother, you know he was the only thing Mycroft really cared about.” 

John shot him a glare.   
“Obviously not.”   
Greg could feel the bite of John’s teeth as he said the words.   
“Mate I'm not trying to rationalise what he did. But people make mistakes, ok? Mycroft wouldn’t have intentionally wanted this to happen. Seems to me he’s doing everything he can to try make up for it.”  
“He can’t!” John snapped. “He can’t make up for it, Sherlock’s dead. If he could bring him back and take proper care of him, then sure… I’d forgive him. But some mistakes are too big to forgive.” 

Greg was silent. John’s attitude clearly wasn’t going to change, and it also applied to him as well.  
“Does this mean you’re going to try to avoid Mycroft?”  
“Yes, of course.”

After a moment, Greg uttered the question on his mind softly.  
“Is it just because of his mistake, or because you don’t want to be reminded of anything to do with Sherlock?”  


John looked down, flicking the last of his meal with his fork.   
“Anything.” John said finally. It stabbed Greg in the chest as surely as if John had plunged the fork there. John was leaving because he didn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore. Greg’s mistakes were not, and never could be, forgiven… and John wanted to distance himself from everything that reminded him of his past life. Greg snidely remarked to himself that going back to Baker Street wouldn’t help there, but said nothing. It was likely the only thing the doctor could do to avoid ‘helping’ Mycroft. 

He couldn’t stomach any more food. Greg decided he was done, and saw that John had finished his plate. He collected both plates and began cleaning up.   
_I wonder if Mycroft knows? Pfft, of course he does. It’s just me that didn't. As usual. At least John told me before he did it, I guess._

“Goodnight.” Greg muttered as he went to his bedroom. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything else. He started his second week of work in the morning, and he knew that John would be gone when he got back. He didn’t want to say anything at all, but he also didn’t want to end their association in silence… thus saying ‘goodnight’, but really, he meant it as ‘goodbye’. He just knew in himself that he wasn’t going to see or hear from John again. He’d lost his only other friend.


	13. Decisions

Greg got home, his day just like the week previous. All paperwork and scowls. He stood in the doorway for a moment, seeing that the bed and wall divider were gone. His place was just the way it used to be, but it felt empty. He threw his jacket on the couch, and went and got himself a drink. He looked in the fridge and saw that there wasn’t much left, and concluded he’d have to go out and shop eventually.   
_At least I can buy alcohol._

He took his glass of water and fell down onto the couch, not caring that the liquid spilled out onto his shirt.   
“I don’t want to be alone.” Greg said softly into the darkness. 

He didn’t bother turning on a light. He just sat and looked at the water in the glass in the dim light from the street. When his divorce happened, he’d not felt that bad about it. He’d been unhappy with his wife for a long time, and even though he’d tried to fix it to avoid being alone, when it all came apart he wasn’t that upset. The people at the office were supportive, John took him out for drinks, and Sherlock had tried to help in his own way. 

Greg smiled at himself. Sherlock had tried to distract him by shoving more cases at Greg, and when that didn’t work, he’d resorted in acting out in order to get Greg to look after him. It was surprising that of all the people that were around after the divorce, it was Sherlock’s help that was most effective. 

But now… he really was alone. He never liked to admit it, but he’d always been afraid of being alone. He knew that’s why he put up with his wife’s cheating for so long, and was even willing to try make it work again. He wanted to get a dog even for company, but knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep one in his apartment with his work hours. He never liked cats, because they never wanted his company. They would just do their own thing and tolerate him as long as they were fed.   
_Kinda like John._

Greg smiled sadly to himself at that thought. No, John was a dog more than a cat. He just was now more like a dog without his owner. Lost.   
_I’m not lost. I know where I am, I know what’s ahead. I just don’t want it._

Still having his regular job had at least given him direction, and a sense of what was going to happen in the future.   
_Maybe that’s what John needs._

Greg shook his head. He shouldn’t think so much about John. It only compounded the loneliness. He stood and put on some music, the most depressing music he had, and sat back down on the couch. He couldn’t get the dreams out of his head. He’d had many like the first one, about killing himself in his office. They all played out a little different, but all were about the same thing and he always met the same end. 

Greg found that suicide had been on his mind a lot lately. He wasn’t thinking about it to plan it out for himself, but he couldn’t seem to stop. It was either about Sherlock’s suicide, or his mind running scenarios of he himself committing suicide. At first he couldn’t really understand Sherlock’s decision. Those first couple of weeks were just shock and bewilderment over it all. But lately, the last week in particular, he’d understood it a lot more. Though, if he was being fair to himself, he was still a bit angry at Sherlock. He still had John, and his brother, there for him. Whereas Greg didn't have anyone. And he didn’t understand how Sherlock could still go through with it while John was there watching… but he had the ominous feeling that he was about to.

The detective laid down on his couch for the first time in a while. He closed his eyes and just listened to the music. Images flashed through his mind in time with the music, as if it became the soundtrack to his imagination. Greg had always had a vivid imagination. It had served him well in his job, given him entertainment in boring times, and in times like these, also aided his avoidance of being alone. He'd had to accept that he was alone, or would be alone, a long time ago. He knew that people looking at him and what he did wouldn’t guess it. In a way that presumption made it all harder. 

He let his mind wander. He could feel himself drifting off into a light sleep. Not wanting to wake up sore for the day tomorrow, he made himself get up and get into bed. He didn’t bother with dinner, and didn’t care that it was still fairly early. He was just done for the day. 

_Done overall._

~

Greg felt himself being ground away steadily. He’d done the work asked of him, and still hadn’t been invited out on cases, but worst of all… the team were leaving him alone. He didn’t know if it was because he’d snapped at them so much last week, or if they just didn’t want to be around him. Either way it didn’t matter. He was getting more and more alone at work, only to go home to the empty flat and have no contact with anyone. He had no idea how John was, he’d not heard from Mycroft either. He’d thought about texting to ask, but was afraid of the rejection. 

The suicidal thoughts that plagued his mind were starting to annoy him less. He didn't fight against them, and allowed his imagination to play out the scenes it presented him with. Surprisingly, he didn’t mind the parts where he died. He got sad at the parts where life went on as normal for everyone, as if they didn't care or even notice he was gone. He felt sad when he saw his own funeral, and that no one came. He got hurt seeing John come to the cemetery and walk past his grave to put flowers on Sherlock’s. And the more the scenes played in his mind, the more he believed that they were true. 

Part of him liked to think that if he did try and kill himself, someone would notice and try stop him. But then he was reminded that there was no one left that took interest in his life. If he did try, there wouldn’t be anyone to stop him. He of course wouldn’t be as dramatic as to leap off a building. Sure, strangers then would probably try to help… but that’s just because the general population doesn’t like people dying. They don’t care at all for the suffering anyone has to go through in their lives, as long as they remain alive and suffering. He’d seen enough suicides to know that the people were always uncared for by those around them, and some of the people they knew had been completely oblivious… but once they died, suddenly everyone was upset and saying how they wished the person had gone to them. Greg sneered at the thoughts.   
_They probably did you wankers, you just never cared or had time to deal with it._

Greg stopped when he realised he was sneering at the paperwork. He looked up, thankful that no one had been looking. He didn’t even care that he’d been staring at the one piece of paper for thirty minutes.  
 _What did it matter if this got done or not?_

It frustrated him that his entire job was now pointless. Sure, it ‘had to be done’, but really it didn’t affect anyone’s lives if it was or not. It was all just to cover arses in the case of legal action or something recurring. Greg found himself not caring about anything that was in the future, least of all legal action involving his paperwork. There was a darkness in his soul that was slowly taking over his mind, and he didn’t even care to fight it.   
_A gun sounds the most appropriate. A good cop’s death._

Greg wasn’t entirely sure when he’d decided his suicide method, but he didn’t care. He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter because he wasn’t going to do it anyway… but the words were feeling more and more hollow as days went by. The more he saw of what his life was like, the more alone he felt… the more he didn’t see a point in continuing. He rejected the idea initially, saying it would just be a stupid, dramatic reaction to a friend’s suicide. But the more he thought about it, it wasn’t about Sherlock’s death. Sure, that had been the trigger, but the reason was the downwards spiral that had happened afterwards. He wasn’t going to die because his best friend was gone. He was going to die because he was utterly alone, depressed, and ignored; stuck in a pointless job where people didn’t like him. It wasn't the grief of loss, it was everything that had happened since that showed him that he was uncared for and unwanted.

Greg looked out of his window.  
 _Sherlock was important to so many, he was well known and became a celebrity in the end… and nothing has changed for anyone now that he’s gone. People go about their business, John moved on even though it was hard, and Mycroft continued as usual. So what is keeping me here? If the great Sherlock Holmes would die and nothing change, there definitely wouldn’t be anything changing from my loss. Someone would get a new desk. An apartment would go back on the market._

Deciding against better judgement, Greg texted Mycroft.

**\- Hi, I was just wondering how John is settling into things. GL**

Greg stared at his phone, expecting a response. But none came. Mycroft had always responded promptly to his texts. He felt the hurt of rejection overwhelm him, and he tossed his phone across the desk.  
 ****

_I don’t know why I thought he’d respond. I’m not needed anymore._


	14. Goodbyes

Greg waited until his shift ended, not having done the paperwork. He’d been planning other things instead. It hadn’t taken very long to go from just thinking about suicide, to deciding to act on it. He tidied up his desk a little. He couldn't be bothered cleaning it properly, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to care about the outcome of the desk after he was gone. 

His phone buzzed.

**\- Gregory, John is in a new apartment. He has expressed desire to work again, and will start back at the clinic for half-shifts on Monday. There are still obstacles to address, but he is managing. MH**

Greg read the text three times.  
 _John is doing better off without me. Good…good. At least it won’t hurt him when I’m gone like Sherlock did._

He wondered if he should respond to Mycroft. He did feel like he wanted to close things off nicely before the end, but he didn’t want to tell Mycroft his plans. He probably would do something to stop it, but nothing to help him survive.

**\- Good. I’m glad. Take care of him, Mycroft. Goodbye. GL**

He hoped that his text would read as only that ‘their association is now over’, not that Greg was going to end his life. It was a gamble to include ‘goodbye’, but Greg felt that he needed to say it. He put his badge right in the middle of his desk in a symbolic gesture, and walked out of the office, turning the lights off. 

Most of the officers were gone, but there were still a couple roaming about. Donovan noticed him about to leave, catching his eye, but turned her head. Greg sighed to himself. 

“Goodbye, Sally.” Greg said, emphasising the ‘bye’ part to make it seem more normal. She looked back at him and nodded, mumbling ‘night’.

Greg looked at the floor as he walked towards the door. He didn’t notice Anderson walking at him, and almost bumped into him.   
“Oi!” Interjected Anderson, annoyed that his boss wasn’t watching where he was going. But the man’s annoyance faded when he looked into Greg’s eyes. He looked so... sad.   
“Sorry.” Greg grumbled, and then took a deep breath. His face became peaceful as he smiled.   
“Goodbye, Phillip.”   
“Yeah… ‘night, Lestrade.” Anderson said, a little unsettled. 

It was slightly strange that his boss had said ‘goodbye’ in full, called him by his first name, and looked sad while doing it. He watched as Greg left, entering the elevator slumped over. He tried to shake the feeling away, but he felt something wasn’t quite right. He knew his DI had been struggling since Sherlock’s suicide, and Anderson himself had felt so guilty for pushing things how he did. He never really got along with Sherlock, but to be a prominent cause in someone's death was unsettling. Especially when it had affected his boss the way it had. 

Anderson concluded that he should talk to Lestrade, and express those feelings of remorse… and hopefully, the DI would accept it and be able to move on. Lestrade hadn’t been into the work since snapping at him and Sally on the first day back. Maybe hearing them being ‘sorry’ would help. 

____

Greg walked into his flat. He put his stuff on the couch as usual, and went and got himself a drink. He’d bought a nice scotch, and wanted to drink some while he could. He pulled his gun out, and left it on the counter. He couldn’t help but trace his fingers over the cold metal. He swallowed his whole glass in one gulp, and poured himself another. He grabbed the gun and walked over to the couch.

He placed both items on the coffee table. He rubbed his face with his hands.   
“I guess this is it, eh.” Greg mumbled to the empty room. He could feel the alcohol taking effect, slowing his movements and calming his body.   
“I… I should have written a note.” 

Greg looked about for a pen and paper, but gave up. What was the point? He didn’t have anyone to write to. He’d said goodbye to everyone he knew, save for John, whom seemed to be better off without him. And he probably wouldn’t be able to write well now that he’d had something to drink. At least, that’s what he told himself. 

He stood, and put on his favourite piece of music. He smiled as he sat down and listened, his eyes closed. He felt more peaceful than he had in over two months. There was no longer a battle raging inside himself, and no more thoughts to fight away. Compared to how he'd felt all week, he was feeling happy.   
_I wonder if this is what Sherlock felt._

He wished he could express in some way that what he was about to do wasn’t just because of Sherlock. It was just everything in his life, which seemed to have been toppled over into an abyss when Sherlock jumped. He wouldn’t be alone anymore. He wouldn’t feel so strained and stressed. He wouldn't feel down, or embarrassed, or anxious. And he wouldn’t feel guilty. Not for Sherlock, and not for this. It was so comforting to think that he wouldn’t feel _anything_ anymore. And he wouldn’t care either. No more thinking, no more feeling. He knew that it was probably going to be difficult for his colleagues to have to clean up after him, but there as a dark satisfaction in thinking that he wasn't going to be around to care. 

He didn’t really want to shoot himself in the head, just because he knew what it looked like afterwards, but he knew that shooting elsewhere would be rather painful.   
_Possibly. Shock might take care of that until I pass out._

It was tempting to shoot himself in the chest instead, since that seemed to be where all the hurt was coming from. But he knew that if he missed, he’d possibly survive. Then he’d be stuck, and in physical pain as well as emotional. And it wasn’t like there would be anyone around to help get through it. 

He finished his second glass, and grabbed the gun. He stood and moved into the bedroom. He didn’t want to be shot on the couch. The bed seemed much better for that. He sat on the edge, with his elbows on his knees, gun in hand.

Mycroft looked at his phone, and saw that the text hadn’t been from Gregory, but instead his surveillance team. When he saw the first words appear on the screen, his stomach dropped.

**\- *PRIORITY ONE*…**

**** The British Government panicked and opened the phone - he was going to call out for people immediately to go stop John, no time to waste. However, he read the rest of the message first (as it had popped up straight away), before he was able to dial.

**\- *PRIORITY ONE* GREG LESTRADE. HOME.**

**** Mycroft stared at the message for a brief moment in utter bewilderment. _Greg?_ Then he remembered the text message he’d gotten earlier… _Take care of him, Mycroft. Goodbye._ Mycroft kicked himself mentally as he responded to call 999. Mycroft’s hands were shaking, but he managed to call Lestrade's number. 

Greg could hear his phone ringing. He’d left it in his bag on the couch. He was tempted to go and see who it was, but resigned himself that it wouldn’t matter. It would probably just be his boss ready to yell at him for not completing the day’s paperwork. Still, it was tempting to answer it just to be able to tell the man what he thought of him. 

Mycroft swallowed hard when there was no answer to his call. He was already on his way there, as he knew the emergency services were, but he wasn't sure either of them would get there in time. He couldn’t breathe. How could he have missed this? If John hadn’t stayed there, and Mycroft hadn’t have installed the cameras that Greg probably had forgotten about, then in all likelihood Mycroft would have been made aware of Greg’s suicide in the morning. 

He tried calling again. 

“Come on, Gregory, answer…please…” 

Greg sighed when the phone rang again. His Super must be really pissed off. He lost the urge to answer it and speak to the man at all. He hated that he still felt uncomfortable not answering his phone, however. As a DI, he was used to answering all of his calls. He didn’t like the idea that he would die not true to how he lived. He looked at the gun facing him. He could pull the trigger now, and then he wouldn’t care about that as well anymore. But he couldn’t help but feel a little… _rude_ … killing himself while someone was trying to call him.   
_What if they want to talk to me, for me? What if they know and are trying to stop me?_

Greg remained frozen as the call went to voicemail again. It wasn’t possible. No one had noticed even when directly told ‘goodbye’. He shook his head. No, no one was coming to save him.  
 _Do I want that? No… I … I don’t think so…_

Greg questioned himself. If he did want someone to save him, then he couldn’t want to die, right? He felt the panic rise up again inside himself.   
“No.” He spoke to the gun. “No one is there. It doesn’t matter if I would want someone to care, because they don’t. It’d only hurt me again like it has so far.” 

Mycroft cursed, and desperately tried to think of other options. John. Gregory’s place was between John’s work and his new flat. If he was lucky, John was still within the area. He dialled John and hoped to hell that the doctor would answer. 


	15. It's My Note

He pressed the cold metal against his forehead. After a moment of thinking, he changed his mind, and moved it to his chest. His hand shook.   
_It should not be this hard._

Greg was getting frustrated. He’d been so calm and collected not long ago. He’d been sure this was what he wanted. But he was starting to feel uncertain, with his mind playing scenarios in his head of people randomly bursting in and expressing that they want him alive. Like it was trying to tempt him into not pulling the trigger. He had to admit, he was afraid. Even with all the alcohol in his system, he was still very afraid. 

“Mycroft, what -“  
“John, can you get to Greg’s flat in under seven minutes?” Mycroft blurted out, knowing that seven minutes was the minimum time that either he or the ambulance would arrive.  
“What?” John exclaimed, suddenly panicking. “Why? What’s going on? I… I’m on my way home, so I guess… I could be there in… 5?” John said, his voice cracking. Something was going on… was Greg in trouble?   
“Do it. Now. Greg has his gun pointed at himself.” Mycroft spoke, having received text updates as to the situation while he’d been trying to call. 

“Jesus.” John uttered, his stomach dropping. He felt the world swimming around him at the information, but he breathed deeply and allowed his military training take over. He instructed the cab driver to get to Greg’s address as soon as physically possible, and that any law breaking would be ignored by the police. The cab driver didn’t seem to believe him, but sped up regardless when seeing the panicked look on his passenger’s face. 

Greg lowered the gun while he thought. He started to cry, and wiped the tears off his face with the hand holding the loaded gun.   
_IF someone comes to save me, what then? I’d be left to fend on my own again anyway._

Greg’s phone rang again. He turned his head and looked at where it would be on the couch (through the wall) skeptically. His Super wouldn’t be this insistent to yell at him after hours, not when he could do it in person tomorrow. So who would be calling him? His heart leapt at the possibility that someone had connected the dots and was seeing if he was alright. That made himself question his actions even further. If it made him this happy that someone might care, then shouldn’t he _not_ shoot himself and get the care?  
_But it’s likely not. Then you’ll feel even worse._

Mycroft was starting to have a panic attack now. He couldn’t seem to hold it in any longer. He would be responsible for Gregory’s death from negligence. If only he would answer the phone… 

John felt terrible. All this time Greg had been there for him, cared for him, given him a place to stay… and he’d done it completely ignored. No, more than ignored. Degraded. John had yelled at him, insulted him, blamed him for Sherlock’s death… and now Greg might die, leaving John the one responsible for a suicide. But unlike Mycroft, John had done it directly. He’d not considered how the DI felt, just accepted the kindness offered to him. Yes, he was definitely worse than Mycroft. And he felt so afraid he’d never get the chance to apologise. 

Greg decided to get the phone and see who was calling at least. He stumbled out into the living room and picked out his buzzing phone. He was more drunk than he realised, swaying from side to side. He held up the phone with his non-gun-laden hand and squinted at the screen. Mycroft. What was he calling for?   
_I am in no mood to hear about how John isn't coping and needs my help._

Then he realised that Mycroft never took down the cameras. He’d assumed they’d all been taken, as John wasn’t there anymore. But it was looking like he was wrong about that.   
_Great. He’s probably staring at me right now._

Greg was tempted to toss the phone back down in protest, just to spite him for ignoring him all this time. But Greg sighed to himself. That wasn’t who he was, and if these were his last minutes, he wanted them to be of _him_.

“Go away Mycroft.” Greg spoke as he answered the phone. Mycroft’s heart leapt at the noise.   
“Gregory… listen to me, please.”   
“Why?”   
“I can’t let you do this.” Mycroft pleaded into the phone. He was so glad that he was still alive, and all he needed to do was keep him talking until one of them arrived to restrain him.   
“You seemed pretty content on letting me get here.” Greg responded snidely, his speech slurring. He had no reason to play polite anymore.   
“I know, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I just keep making mistake after mistake… assuming the wrong things… but I won’t ignore you anymore, Greg, I promise.” 

Greg stumbled back to the bedroom. He sat back down where he was again, and placed the gun to his chest.   
“I’m only answering so I can live my last moments free of regret.” Greg mumbled into the phone.   
“Greg, I can’t lose you.” Mycroft uttered, not realising how sincere the words were until now. 

Greg didn’t respond, but made a confused face. Why would _he_ matter to the British Government?  
“Why…?” Greg asked, aware that his eyelids were starting to get heavy.   
“Greg… you took care of Sherlock better than I could. You have no idea how indebted to you I am for helping him get clean. I trust you and your judgement more than most of my staff. I … I care about you, Gregory.” 

Greg sat there in silence, listening to Mycroft’s ragged breaths. He’d not thought about how Mycroft Holmes might care about him. He seemed to ignore him entirely, and focus entirely on John… but he seemed to recognise it was a mistake now.   
_Everyone always just says what you want to hear in these times._

“You’re just saying it, Mycroft. Words are your weapons.” Greg uttered, a surge of energy flooding through him. He pressed the gun harder into his chest.   
“Yes…” Mycroft uttered, and Greg could swear he heard a sob. “I’m just saying it now, not like I should have a long time ago.”  
“This isn’t just cause of him!” Greg snapped. 

Mycroft froze, even though he knew Greg couldn’t see him. The situation was so fragile, he didn’t want to make a single wrong move or get Gregory angry.   
“What is it about?” Mycroft spoke softly.   
“Everything.” Greg said, finding it harder to sit upright. “Sherlock’s death just brought all the reasons why I shouldn’t bother living to the surface. No one cared, no one bothered about me, my colleagues hated me, my job is boring and pointless… I have no one, and I contribute nothing. There would be no change to the world if I weren’t in it.” 

Mycroft could hear the slurred speech getting worse, and was glad that there was a chance that Gregory would pass out from the alcohol before pulling the trigger. It sounded like it would happen at any moment, he just had to keep Greg talking a little longer…  
“There would be in mine.” Mycroft spoke honestly. 

John was frantically staring out the window, seeing the destination approach. He hadn’t heard anything from Mycroft, and so assumed that Greg was still alive. 

Greg almost laughed when he realised that he was speaking to Mycroft on the phone as his ‘note’, like Sherlock had done with John. He could feel the darkness descend down upon him from the alcohol, and his body fall backwards gently. He’d initially thought it would calm him and dull the pain, but now it was proving an obstacle. It had to be now, or likely never. 

“Gregory… I need you.” Mycroft said when there was no response.   
“'m sssorry, Mycroft…” Greg managed to get out. 

John arrived, and jumped out of the cab. He could hear sirens in the distance, and leapt to run full force towards Greg. But he stopped dead when he heard a gunshot. 

Mycroft screamed out to Greg on the phone, but was struck motionless at the sound of the gun firing. He felt like vomiting. 

“Oh, god, not again…” John uttered, his body tensing and legs threatening to give way. He ran. He ran just like he had to Sherlock. He swiftly broke the door in, and his eyes frantically darted about for Greg. He was desperately hoping that he could be still saved. The paramedics were already almost here…

John burst into Greg’s bedroom, and saw him lying across the bed, blood oozing from his chest. John sprang to action, hope filling him inside the panic that maybe, just maybe, he would survive. The doctor immediately put pressure on the wound, and felt for a pulse on Greg’s neck. There was still one there, albeit weak. 

“Greg, come on, you can’t do this to me.” John mumbled as he searched for something he could use to pad the wound. There was nothing in reach, and he dare not take his hand off the detective’s chest. The wound was much closer to the side than John expected, hoping that there had been no damage to the heart. He was confused that despite placing pressure on the wound, blood was still draining out into the bed… but not through his fingers. 

John heard the ambulance arrive, and was glad that within seconds, Greg would get a transfusion and could be rushed off to surgery. John looked over to the side where the blood seemed to be still pooling, and saw another wound. Immediately he used his other hand, somewhat contorting himself, to apply pressure to the (presumably) exit wound. 

_This is good._ John told himself. If the bullet had travelled only between the two points, then major damage wasn’t as likely. He was still concerned about Greg’s lung being punctured and filling with blood, but that could be lived with. 

The paramedics arrived in a flurry of activity, and John just stood back and let them work. He normally liked to control the situation… but he was starting to experience delayed shock. He sat on the floor and stared at his shaking bloodied hands. 

Moments later, Mycroft arrived. He looked pale and panicked. He saw the paramedics working, and he let out a held breath. Greg was still alive. His eyes fell on John, who was on the floor, covered in blood, and shaking. Mycroft went to kneel beside him, but his body had other ideas, and let him collapse down to sit with the doctor. 

“He… missed.” John uttered, unconsciously resting his head on Mycroft's shoulder.   
“I was on the phone with him when he did it. He was rather drunk, likely passed out while attempting and so missed."   
“God, I've never been happier someone passed out from drinking.” John spoke softly. The two men watched as the paramedics loaded Greg onto the gurney, and left. They had said they needed to get him back to the hospital ASAP, and would like the two of them to follow. 

Mycroft stood, and helped John to his feet. Both were a bit wobbly, but they were extremely focused on following the ambulance.   
“We’ll go in my car.” Mycroft stated, both of them entering the black car stationed outside the building. The cab had gone, no doubt Anthea had paid for his service. 

“Is… is he going to be ok?” Mycroft uttered.   
“I… I think so… maybe..." John responded, shaking his head. 

“I screwed up big time, Mycroft.” John spoke after a moment’s silence.   
“As did I. Again.” 

John looked at him, and he’d never looked so _human._ Honestly, he looked a wreck. In a brief moment of silence, John sympathised with Mycroft. Everything rolled around in his head, and he was sure he was still in shock, but he had a moment of clarity. He was no longer angry at the man for his role in Sherlock’s demise. He understood it. And it was because of him that Greg might live. They looked at each other, understanding in their eyes.

“It is sad that it has taken this for you to forgive me.” Mycroft said. It was still presumptuous, but it didn’t take Sherlock, or Mycroft, Holmes to see the forgiveness on John’s face.   
“Yes. It is. But I don’t think any other way would have done the same.” John said regrettably. He sighed.   
“I only hope that Greg survives for me to tell him not only that I forgive him about Sherlock, but that I’m so very sorry for all I’ve done to him. I feel like I don’t deserve that chance… I know that you would have wanted it for Sherlock." 

John’s voice was quiet. Mycroft just nodded. 

“If we get that chance, we mustn’t let it slip away again.” Mycroft stated. John eyed him, and understood what he meant.


	16. Anxiously Waiting

John and Mycroft sat in the waiting room, side by side. John had been cleaned of the blood on his hands, and had been given a shock blanket. He’d accepted it without word, knowing that honestly, he needed it. 

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. He could see the doctor’s mind swirling, but didn’t know what was appropriate to say. He was struggling to keep himself composed. He didn’t like to show how vulnerable he often felt. Mycroft had perfected his icy façade over many years, and it had served him well in his line of work. The less people knew how he cared, the better. But he couldn’t distance himself from everything, and couldn’t hide all of the anxiety sometimes… and this situation was one that brought him to breaking point.

He noticed John was trembling, and he was unsure if he should offer some form of physical support. He was afraid that if he did, John would register the tremor in his own body. Mycroft did’t know why he was so adamant in keeping his true feelings hidden, least of all from John, but he assumed it was just second nature to him now.

John tried hard to not keep thinking to himself that it was his fault. But the words were so hollow, that they might as well have not been said. Because, really, it was. He’d left with barely any warning and not spoken to Greg again. For someone going through things that Greg obviously had been, that would have been a real kick in the mud. John rattled his brain, but he couldn't think of anyone else that Greg had to turn to in his life… which compiled the guilt of taking it all away from him. Not that he’d offered any support beforehand. 

He was a soldier, and had killed people before. He was a doctor, and had saved many lives. But now… now he felt just a failure. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help but feel that all this had just destroyed all the progress that he’d made since Sherlock died. And he hated himself for thinking about himself while Greg was still in surgery, no news if he was going to survive. 

“John.” Mycroft began to say. He didn’t know how to finish it, though. What could he say? It’s not your fault? That wasn’t exactly true.   
“Even though you had a hand in all of this, please remember that you were suffering as well. The things you did were not done in full conscience.”  
“Stop it, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft obliged. They remained sitting in silence for quite a bit longer. Eventually John decided he was willing to talk. 

“I’m sorry, Mycroft.” John uttered softly.   
Mycroft turned to look at him. He was still slumped forward, with his elbows on his knees, and the blanket draped over his back. 

“I know.” Mycroft stated.   
“All this time… I hated you, for what you did. I was so angry. And I hated Greg as well. I eventuallywas able to move on, but god… I was horrible to him for ages, Mycroft. And he was all alone in it. I never really forgave him properly… just… accepted it and moved on. I moved on from him, too. I left his place, and didn’t talk to him since. Fuck, he’d have thought I didn’t want to talk to him ever again. The last conversation we had … he asked if I wanted to move on from everything that reminded me of Sherlock, and I said yes. I didn’t mean him too…” 

John’s voice broke near the end, and he put his face into his hands.  
“And now I’ve gone and fucking done worse!” John snapped through his fingers. 

Mycroft hesitantly placed a hand on John’s back. He remained silent to allow John to let out his feelings. To his surprise, John didn’t shy away from the physical contact.

“I never realised how easy it was to be so crappy… to make such big mistakes…” John uttered, drawing in a deep breath, and looking at Mycroft. The British Government just nodded. 

“The things I do every day have the potential to be enormous mistakes. One wrong word here, one poor decision there… they could all end up hurting those I care about most in the end. Despite what you may think of me, I cannot always predict what is going to happen. Sometimes I do things I know are mistakes, but are necessary for the short term… only to have them become problems later. Sometimes I do things and only realise how wrong I was in hindsight after it’s all gone south.”

John eyed him carefully, blinking the tears away so his vision wasn’t blurry. Mycroft looked very sincere, and rather shaken. It was strange to see. The man sighed, and for the first time John could recall, slumped forward and rubbed his face with his hands. 

“I live in perpetual fear of something I’ve done unwittingly destroying everything I hold dear.” Mycroft said, barely a whisper.   
“I’d normally say that’s paranoia, but in your case… I have a feeling your fears are founded.” 

Both men nodded gently. 

“What do we do now?” John asked.   
“Well… assuming Gregory…”  
“Yes, we're assuming that.” John interrupted. He didn’t want to think of the alternative.   
“Indeed. We… we take care of him. Believe me John, this was more my failing that yours. I didn’t anticipate how badly things would go for the detective inspector. He made it clear that his actions weren’t _because_ of Sherlock, but that event set in motion the downwards spiral into depression that he couldn’t escape.”  
“He said that, did he?"  
"Well, not as such, no, just that it wasn’t a reaction to Sherlock’s suicide. But I don’t doubt him. I am well aware of how one traumatic or tragic even can knock someone down into such a place. Particularly if they were struggling to keep going as normal beforehand.”

John frowned.   
“You think he’d had trouble with depression before?”  
Mycroft looked at him blankly.   
“It was rather obvious, doctor.” 

John rattled his brain to all of his encounters with the detective inspector. He had looked worn out most of the time, stressed, and had been dealing with a divorce. The information kicked John in the gut even more. He’d been fine beforehand, and hadn’t noticed those things back then. 

“Some doctor I've turned out to be.” John mumbled.   
“We make mistakes, John. You shouldn’t let them define you.” 

Before John could respond, they saw a doctor approach them. They both stood, eagerly anticipating information. The doctor smiled at them, and introduced himself. 

“Mr Lestrade is making a good recovery. The bullet passed through his side and didn’t rupture any major arteries. There is some lung tissue damage, but I anticipate he will cover from that. He is still in post-op, but you can see him soon. Do you have any questions?”

John didn’t know what to say. He was intensely relieved to hear that not only was Greg alive, but he seemed to have suffered minimal damage. No doubt because he received treatment so quickly. John felt another wave of appreciation and affection towards Mycroft. 

“When will he be awake?” Mycroft asked.   
“He’ll be coming out of the anaesthesia momentarily, and so should be fairly lucid when you see him.” The doctor was smiling, but Mycroft exchanged worried glances with John. Neither of them knew what Greg would do upon waking and realising that he was indeed alive. 

“Be prepared for a possibly aggressive patient.” Mycroft stated bluntly. The doctor looked at him questioningly.   
“We don’t know how he’ll take the realisation that he’s … still alive.” John said, not knowing why the doctor seemed to be unaware that it was a suicide attempt. Well, previously unaware. 

“I see. I will inform the staff.” He said, and left. 


	17. Still Here

Greg could hear noises. He didn’t know what they were or if they were important. He blinked rapidly, the blinding light causing him some pain. Then he registered it: pain. His body hurt, but specifically his chest. What was going on? 

His eyes focused and he noticed that everything was white, and there were people moving about giving him glances. He turned his head and saw that he was lying in a bed, with railings, and there was equipment all around him in the room. He then realised where he was: a hospital.

“Erg, fuck.” Greg mumbled, though he wasn't sure he was able to say the words properly. It all flooded back to him: the gun, the phone call…  
_I’m going to be stuck like this… there’s no escape now._

“No…” Greg breathed, and let the tears fall. He didn't care if they saw him. His eyes flickered up as he saw a man stop to stand over him.   
“Hello, Greg. I’m Doctor Smith. How are you feeling?”  
Greg said nothing, but scowled up instead. The doctor decided to continue.   
“Yes, well.I hope the pain is manageable. We will be moving you to a room shortly, and you have two visitors who wish to see you.”  
 _Two? Oh, Mycroft must have called John. I’m surprised he came… I don’t know why they’re still here though.  
_ Greg continued to say nothing. The doctor nodded at him, and then wrote a few notes down. 

“Well, I will be coming back to check in on you recovery tomorrow. I will see you then, good day.” Dr Smith said, either feeling awkward or annoyed, and left. 

Greg was wheeled into a small private room. He wondered if it was Mycroft’s doing, but he didn't feel grateful for the privacy. He didn’t feel anything. He was back to feeling just… numb. He’d failed. He couldn’t even kill himself right. He didn’t want to cry, but the tears still fell down his still face. 

_What now?_

The silence was nice. The room was empty, and far enough away from everything that the rush of the hospital was kept away. Greg didn’t do anything but lay propped up in the bed, staring blankly at the wall. He could feel the twinge of regret filling him as he thought back over his actions. He couldn’t help but feel embarrassed that people had seen him in this state, and of what they thought of him. What would Mycroft and John think of him? He still considered John his only friend, even if the doctor didn’t seem to return it, and Mycroft … well, he wasn’t sure what he considered Mycroft. But either way, he cared what they thought of him. He really didn’t feel up to facing their judgement, however it was apparent that he had no choice in the matter. He sighed to himself. 

_I don’t seem to have much of a choice in anything anymore._

The door opened, and in shuffled the pair he’d just been thinking about. They looked different than he expected. John seemed very withdrawn and pale, and Mycroft was surprisingly worn down. Greg trailed his eyes down the pair of them, picking up on the details. He hadn’t ever seen Mycroft looking like that… not even right after Sherlock’s suicide. 

They were all aware of the silence that hung thickly in the room, but Greg was intent on not being the one to break it. Instead, he continued to stare and frown, his eyes occasionally coming to rest on the wall. 

“Greg…” John breathed. 

Greg looked up into his eyes. They seemed strained, and worried. 

“Greg I’m… I’m so sorry.” John’s voice caught, as if he was fighting back crying himself. Greg’s eyebrow flickered upward… John was feeling remorseful? The doctor took a deep breath and steadied himself. 

“Greg, I don’t expect you to forgive me. I was selfish, degrading, and inconsiderate towards you. I couldn’t see what was going on around me in my own grief, and it almost cost me dearly. I don’t know what I would do if you died as well, you’re like the only friend I have left. I didn’t mean that I didn’t want to be in your life anymore when we spoke about not being reminded of Sherlock. 

“I felt so… angry... towards you, and you were just doing your job. You did what you could to help him. And yet I… I have done so much worse to you. I honestly hadn’t truly forgiven you until I realised how much an utter cock I'd been all this time. So I’m not going to ask you to forgive me… cause I know it doesn’t happen that easy, and I know you shouldn't have to. Not until I can make it up to you. I’m just… just so… glad that I can tell this to you, and not your tombstone… like Sherlock.” 

John couldn’t hold back the tears as he poured his soul out, and had really forced himself to get the last words out. Greg didn’t know what to say. He could tell John was really emotionally unstable, and even in his state, he could appreciate how overwhelming all this would be for him. Greg knew he was probably being too kind, but he never could help his kind heart… he felt bad for John; and even though there was still resentment there, he felt like he would forgive him. 

He wanted to do something, to hug Greg, to shake his hand, reassure him that he was telling the truth and that he’d be there for him from now on. But he’d always been a bit stand-offish when it came to physical support, and so remained standing awkwardly beside the bed. His heart pounded and he could barely breathe, like there was rope constricting his chest, as he awaited Greg’s reply. 

The detective didn't know what to say. He swallowed, and nodded softly to John. He could feel the despair piercing through the numbness, and started to shake gently from the panic of that darkness overwhelming him again. Greg’s expression changed to pained, and the two men stood closer to his bed. 

“Are you in pain?” John asked, concerned.   
Greg was, but he reminded himself that he’d just been shot, so that was nothing unexpected. That wasn’t why he had a pained expression. He just shook his head. 

He wanted to know why they were there, really… a deep sinister voice coaxed him into suspecting ulterior motives. He wanted to know why he'd been saved, and how… but ultimately, he wanted to just not be conscious. 

Greg looked up at Mycroft, whom had still said nothing. It was rather uncharacteristic of him. He looked tired, and his eyes still had a tinge of red in them as if he’d cried… could it be possible, that the iceman had cried over his attempted suicide? He’d heard John call Mycroft that once, and while he personally didn’t think it applied to the man, he understood how such a nickname would appear. He was usually very stoic, formal, and held up a façade of detachment. Greg was probably one of the few people to see Mycroft’s caring side, in regards to his brother. But this expression was something else entirely.

“Gregory… I also owe you an apology. I ignored you, I assumed that you would be fine. I stood by and offered help to John right before your eyes but not once considered that you would need it as well. I should have known better. I should have considered you. It would have only taken a single question from me to realise. But more than that, I should have noticed on my own. And I certainly shouldn’t have just left the way I did when John moved. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I do really care about you Gregory, and I am so very sorry. Everything I said to you over the phone was sincere.” 

Mycroft strained to speak. It was unlike him to admit his mistakes so vehemently. He took another step forward, so that he was standing against the railing of the bed. Mycroft then reached down and gently grasped Greg’s hand. The detective’s eyes flickered down to see, and then back at Mycroft, confused.

“I am so very glad that you are still here.” 

“Yes, you assumed I would be fine because you thought I was fine beforehand!” Greg snapped. Mycroft sunk a little, released Greg’s hand, and curled inwards. But Greg wasn’t done. He felt a rage building up inside him, and he no longer cared what happened from his words or behaviour. He just needed to get it all out. 

“None of you cared what was going on in my life before it all blew up in my face when Sherlock jumped. No one did! As long as I kept up doing my job, everything was just fine. I’d had a hell of a time enough dealing with my own anxieties, not to mention the traumas of what I deal with on a day to day basis. I’d willingly let myself be utterly miserable trying to make it work with a woman who didn’t give a shit about me… just because I was terrified of being alone. Then after all that suffering, knowing I wasn’t worth a god damned cent to her… or anyone else for that mater… I was alone anyway. I had pressure from all sides at work, and tried to keep the divorce clean, but it broke me down. I’m sure you knew about it all, Mycroft, you’ve got your nose in everyone’s damned business. 

“And you, John… you’re a doctor, so I know you would have seen the clear signs that I was struggling…but you said, and did, nothing about it. I thought you were my mate but you didn’t even ask if things were ok when we’d meet up for a pint. I’d been divorced by a cheating witch for christ sake! That’s usually enough of a reason on it’s own for a friend to care, let alone a doctor. All I had was you and Sherlock, since my team are selfish bastards, and I’d thought that you’d care. Sherlock noticed, even… sure, he was too bloody awkward to know what to do, but at least he fucking tried unlike you! Surely you didn’t really think I just happened to have a “holiday” and came see you.

“So you know what? I started to just accept that no one cared for me how I needed it. That I just didn’t matter. I was alone, and all there was left for me was getting my job done, and the stress of it all just made me feel more down about it. And you know what? You all proved me right once Sherlock was gone!”  


“Greg, please calm down…” John managed to say, aware that the monitors were beeping loudly, and getting so worked up after surgery wasn’t a good idea. 

“Oh shut it, John.” Greg snarled. “I don’t need your medical advice now. I needed it a fucking year ago. Don’t both of you sit there feigning ignorance. You knew shit was going on, and yet you just didn’t care. I get it, I’m just some cop from Scotland Yard. No point in wasting resources on someone like me, eh Mycroft? But I was around you and Sherlock a lot, John. All those times we met up and you’d just bitch about Sherlock’s experiments… I just wanted company, so I shut my damned mouth and let you complain. I’m not saying life was perfect for either of you, but fuck… you can’t just sit there thinking all this is just because Sherlock died and you ignored me. This has been a long time coming.”

Greg was panting by the time he finished. His chest hurt, his muscles were shaking, but his resolve was solid. He felt relieved to have finally confronted them. The panic seethed its way back into his gut, but he tried to ignore it. He looked away from the two men, both standing there in shock from his outburst.


	18. On the Right Path

“What happened?”

It had been a while since Mycroft and John had walked in to join him, and it was only now that Greg had managed to ask that question that had been burning in his mind. He’d tried to keep the tone neutral, despite his mixed feelings about it. He wasn’t angry anymore at them for their ignorance over the past year or so. He was, however, still a bit angry that he’d been saved, curious as to how that happened… and a little warm inside to think that someone - one or both of them - cared enough to keep him around. 

The confessions of guilt Greg had listened to had made him feel somewhat better, and less hurt by their actions. Once he’d shouted his mind, something he’d wanted to do for a long time, he felt at peace with it. Especially since they both seemed to be guilty and ashamed over it, instead of shouting back at him. And the relief that he’d finally gotten his thoughts out, knowing that the both of them knew exactly what he was angry about, calmed him. Their acceptance of his anger and thoughts made him feel like he could finally openly listen to what happened. 

“I … I was alerted by my surveillance team that there was a suicide crisis. I regret to say that I immediately assumed it was regarding John. The realisation that it was you hit me quite forcefully. I instructed for the emergency services to rush you, and made my way there immediately. You know that I had called you, but I also called John.”

Greg moved his gaze over to John, sitting in the chair beside the bed. Mycroft paused for a moment to allow the information to register for Greg… knowing that he was on a lot of pain medication that would reduce his cognitive function. 

“I was on my way back from the clinic, so I was within five minutes of your place…” John started.  
“Luckily…” Mycroft interjected.   
“Yes, very luckily. I… once I got out of the cab, I heard the shot. I broke your door down and found you bleeding on your bed, but you were alive and that’s all I cared about. I tried to stop the blood with my hands, and not long afterwards the paramedics arrived and took over. I… I know, that… if I hadn’t been there when I was, you could have bled out by the time the ambulance arrived. And if Mycroft hadn’t called them right away… well, I know you’d have died there.” 

“If Mycroft hadn’t had those damned cameras installed for me, we’d…we’d have lost you, Greg… and I can’t bear to think about having lost you too…” John said, his hand clasping over his mouth to stop himself from breaking down openly. 

Greg hadn’t realised how close he’d come. He just blinked…thinking to himself.   
_So I almost succeeded._

He thought he’d be disappointed in himself, but knowing that he would have succeeded had it not been for the two men in the room with him made him feel content with himself. Like he wasn’t incompetent or a failure in something at least. Really, he’d ended up getting what he’d wanted: some acknowledgement. He didn't want to call it ‘attention’, since that sounded so selfish, but it was true in a way. He’d been ignored for so long. 

The silence hung in the air. It was broken by Mycroft clearing his throat.   
“John, could you please give me a moment with Gregory?”  
“Oh, um… sure.” John said, frowning and looking uncomfortable. Still he stood and slowly made his way to the door. Greg noticed the expression, and tried to help a little.   
“Hey, listen, if you don’t mind… I’d love some water.”

John’s face lit up as he smiled back at Greg, all too willing to be of some assistance. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft said once John had closed the door.   
“For what?”   
“For making him feel useful. I have noticed that he is better when he has a purpose. John Watson may not care for himself, but he will always offer assistance. I believe it is the best way for him to cope, even if he doesn’t realise it.”

Greg didn’t respond. He knew Mycroft was being honest, and trying to converse, but he really wasn’t in the mood to talk about John coping or not. Not while he was sitting there with a self inflicted bullet wound to the chest. Mycroft seemed to pick up on the DI’s attitude. 

“Forgive me, Gregory, I did not intend to distract from your predicament.”

Greg nodded briefly, still unimpressed. Mycroft stood, and walked to stand up against the bed again. He reached down again and took Greg’s hand. Greg was surprised again, but didn’t mind it. It was nice to have a physical reminder of having someone there caring about him. He guessed that it was as ‘supportive’ as Mycroft knew how to be, and nothing more. He briefly wondered if this was what he’d done when Sherlock was in hospital. 

“I don’t know how to atone for my actions, Gregory.” Mycroft whispered. He looked even more tired than before. Greg felt a pang of sympathy towards him. He wanted to say that it was alright, as was his usual impulse to ever be the nice guy, but bit his tongue. Because it wasn’t alright, not really. 

“I’m sorry I never connected the real meaning behind your goodbye message to me.”   
“You weren’t the only one.” Greg grumbled. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, asking for him to continue. “I said goodbye to Donovan and Anderson at the yard, but they didn’t notice anything either.”

Mycroft made a mental note to go investigate the two in question. But he had more he wanted to know from the detective.   
“Gregory, why did you ask me to take care of John in your goodbye? And why not ask for help? Surely you would have known I’d have taken you seriously, and done anything I could have.”   
“Because… because I didn’t … I…” Greg stumbled over his words. He wanted to say he didn’t want to be stopped, but at the same time, he wasn’t so sure if that was true. He stopped and took a breath, focusing on the man’s hand grasped firmly around his own. 

“I wanted you to take care of John because I knew even though he didn’t want to have me in his life anymore, my suicide would affect him. Losing two people in such a short time would affect anyone. I … I felt like he might regret his behaviour in hindsight. He would be hard on himself.” 

Greg got the easy part out of the way. Mycroft nodded patiently, awaiting the rest - so Greg felt obliged to continue.

“As for not asking… at the time, I felt like if I said anything to hint at my intentions, I would be stopped. And I didn’t want that. I mean when you called me, over and over, I started to question that thought, since it seemed like I did want someone to care. And I felt like if I did tell you, I would be rejected. I’d been ignored so far, I’m not important… there wasn’t reason for you to care. And the last thing I wanted was to be locked away all alone even if you _had_ done something.”

It was difficult to say, but Greg felt liberated. He felt he didn’t need to care so much about other’s opinions (especially since his outburst), and felt better having been honest. But when he saw Mycroft’s reaction, he regretted it. 

Mycroft felt like the words stabbed him in the gut. He screwed his face up, trying to keep a hold on his emotions. But he couldn’t stop his eyes burning and some tears falling. The British Government, standing there, crying. He felt so ashamed for it, but he was too tired to care. After everything that had happened in the past 12 hours, crying was no longer important to avoid. Besides, how could one give the impression of sturdiness when inside one is shattered?

“You are important, Gregory…and there is every reason for me to care.” Mycroft said, his voice breaking.

Greg was stunned. He’d always been one of the few people to see that Mycroft Holmes actually _had_ emotions, and now here he was, watching the ‘iceman’ cry. Over him. Greg felt unsure what to do … was he supposed to comfort him? Say something? Ignore it? Before he could decide, Mycroft drew in a deep breath and looked to the ceiling, attempting to regain his composure. 

“Forgive me.”  
“No.” Greg responded.   
“I’m sorry?”  
“I’m not going to forgive you for showing me you have emotions, Mycroft. You should do that more, it’s not something needing forgiveness.” 

Mycroft smiled and nodded softly. It wasn’t often he was spoken to that way, and he was glad that Greg had. The whole situation seemed to give the detective some confidence over his social anxieties.   
“Thank you.” Mycroft muttered.

“What now, Mycroft?” Greg asked, hopelessness evident in his voice.   
“I can’t predict the future, Gregory, but I can assure you that you won’t be alone in it.”  
“Gonna have your minions follow me everywhere like you did with John?” Greg said, trying to make a joke. Mycroft didn’t seem to pick up on it.   
“I will have someone with you at all times, yes, however I was meaning that I will be there for you in a way I should have been from the start. More so, now, even.” 

There was something in Mycroft’s voice that Greg couldn’t place. Commitment?   
_Sentiment?_ Greg heard Sherlock’s baritone voice resound in his head. He’d heard Sherlock accuse Mycroft of that once before, but he hadn’t known to what the detective had been referring.Pain stabbed him in the chest at the memory, and it had nothing to do with his bullet wound. 

“You wish you could have been there for him.” Greg said. It wasn’t a question. Mycroft nodded gently, and looked down. Greg felt the hand clasped over his squeeze firmer for a moment.   
“I’m going to take care of you.” Mycroft said softly.

Greg didn’t know if it was because Mycroft hadn’t realised how bad things had gotten for now two people around him, and only got to have a second chance with him. He really didn’t care. On some level, Mycroft was probably compensating for letting Sherlock fall through his net. But to Greg, it just meant that they both could benefit from the care promised. 


	19. Friends and Colleagues

There was a knock on the door, and John walked in, holding a cup and a jug of water.   
“I can come in, right?” He asked, noticing how intimate the two men looked.  
“Yes, that’s fine, John.” Mycroft said, releasing his hand from Greg’s. “In fact, I need to make a few phone calls, please excuse me.” 

Mycroft pulled out his phone and left the room, closing the door behind him. John poured out a cup of water, and handed it to Greg.  
“Thanks, mate.” Greg said, mostly out of reflex, but John beamed at hearing the term of endearment. 

John had been so ashamed of his behaviour, he’d assumed Greg would want nothing to do with him anymore - and so was very happy to hear Greg treating him like his normal self. He felt like he didn’t deserve it, but at least it gave him a chance to be a better person for his friend. Because since he’d gotten that call from Mycroft - he’d realised just how shitty of a friend he’d been. For a very long time. 

“We’re not going to ignore you anymore Greg. And I want you to try being more open with us and tell us when we’re being complete arses to you. And you know, talk to us about how things are going of course.”  
“I… I dunno, John, it’s hard at the best of times…”  
“I know, I know, but we’re letting you know that you can. Anytime. I’ll ask questions to you so you can just answer without needing to bring it up. And I promise I won’t avoid you, like I tried to.” 

John understood what Greg meant. He’d had quite a few patients over the years with problems bringing up problems to talk about, and found that being asked directly and often would help them start. 

Greg gave him an awkward smile. John returned it. They hadn’t really spoken about anything that Greg had shouted, but it seemed they’d reached an understanding. Greg knew that John realised the err of his ways, and was going to try change. And John could see Greg was willing to give him a second chance. 

“John, look, I know that everything is still crap for you as well… I’m not expecting you to put yourself aside for me.”  
“Like you did for me?” John said pointedly. Greg smirked.  
“Yes. I don’t want our roles to be reversed later on.” 

John nodded. He was very appreciative that the detective, even despite everything that had happened, was still considerate towards his feelings. He was a good man, and deserved a better lot in life than he’d gotten thus far. 

Out in the hallway, Mycroft called Anthea.   
“I need the contact information for Gregory Lestrade’s work colleagues, known as ‘Donovan’ and ‘Anderson.’”  
“Sir, it’s rather late - nearing midnight….” Anthea protested.   
“I … do not… care.” Mycroft hissed into the phone.  
“Yes sir.” Anthea replied. She wasn’t concerned about doing the work so late, as that happened all the time… she was more concerned that the who officers in question would not take kindly to being contacted at this hour. She hung up and began searching. 

It only took a few moments for Mycroft to receive a text message containing the contact numbers of Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson. 

He pressed to dial Ms Donovan first. He knew neither of them knew who he was - all of his contact with NSY was done from higher up and his ‘requests’, as Gregory had put it, were filtered down from there. 

“Hello?”  
“Good evening, Ms Donovan.”  
“It’s bloody night. What do you want? Who are you?” Sally’s voice was garbled and brisk, as if she was annoyed from being woken. Mycroft found he was inexplicably angry at her, and decided to not reveal that he was Sherlock’s brother, and instead merely a friend of Gregory’s. 

“My name is Mycroft. I am a friend of your boss, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”  
“Oh, alright.” 

Mycroft smiled at the change in tone of her voice.   
“Why are you calling me at this hour? Is…is everything alright?” Sally asked, sounding slightly worried.  
“No, in fact it is not. However this phone call is not intended to deliver you information, but rather for me to gather some of my own.” Mycroft stated, smiling to himself at taking charge. 

“What happened?”  
“I will eventually answer your questions, however as I stated, I require information from you first.”  
“I can’t give out information about our cases to someone I’ve never met over the phone.” Sally stated blankly.  
“You misunderstand me, Ms Donovan. Should I have required information regarding your work I would have it already without your involvement.”

Sally didn’t quite know what to make of the conversation so far. Mycroft was pleased that he was keeping her on her toes, it makes it much easier for honest information. 

“Look, you said something was going on with Lestrade…”  
“Yes, indeed it has, but first I need you to describe to me his behaviour since he returned to work, and your responses to said behaviour.”  
“What, all of it, now? You’re crazy, mate. Forget it.” 

Mycroft’s anger increased. He was not used to being spoken to with such insolence. He took a deep breath and channeled the emotions to further his purpose. Protecting Gregory.  
“Listen to me very carefully. While Gregory has survived thus far, I can assure you, that unless you cooperate …you will not.” 

It was mostly an empty threat, but Mycroft couldn’t help but say it.  
“Are you threatening me? I could arrest you, you know.”  
“No, you couldn’t. You wouldn’t make it that far.” Mycroft said in his calm, dangerous tone. “Now, as I can see you are having difficulty understanding me, I will make this easy for you. Answer my questions, and I will explain to you the situation.”  


Sally was not interested in submitting to death threats or blackmail, but she was still curious about knowing what happened with her boss. His departure earlier in the day was suspicious enough to make her follow through. 

“Alright. But I’m still going to report you.”  
"Very well. What would you say Gregory’s mood was when he first returned to work?”  
“He was angry at us, that’s what. Shouted at us about the Freak’s death, and insulted us for just doing our jobs.”

Mycroft cringed at hearing his brother being called a ‘freak’.  
“Do not call him that.”  
“Oh so you liked him to eh? Can see why you and the boss get along. He’s always telling me that now.”  
“Good. Did you return the insults?”  
“Well… I, he… he was being unreasonable.”  
“I’ll take that as a yes.”  
“Look, it wasn’t just me alright, everyone did. The Chief Superintendent was really pissed at him, and had blamed all of us as well for following Lestrade’s mistakes with the F- Sherlock.” 

Mycroft swallowed. He hadn’t realised the backlash Gregory had suffered from Sherlock’s ‘fraud’ accusation. No wonder he’d been depressed about his future at the Yard… and his work was everything to him, apparently. 

“Ok, and so after all this, what did he end up doing at the Yard? In general I mean.”  
“Just paperwork. He wasn’t trusted out in the field by the boss, and he’d gotten a lot of paperwork built up while he was away. So he just sat there at his desk. Didn’t talk to us anymore.”  
“Did you not find that odd? Why did you not go and talk to him?  
“Cause we didn’t want to get yelled at again, did we?” 

Mycroft knew it was a lie, and that she at least hadn’t wanted to talk to him because of being offended and angry. But he still had to ask about the ‘goodbye’ Gregory had mentioned, and wanted to make sure she felt bad for ignoring that. 

“Well, consider today. Did anything out of the ordinary happen?”  
“No. He just sat at his desk like normal. It looked like he didn’t do any of the work even, but that’s his problem, not ours.”  
“Did he speak to you?”  
“No, why? What’s this all about already?!”  
“Soon. I need to build up a picture of events. Are you sure he didn’t say anything to you at all?”  
“No, well.. he said goodnight to me as he left, that’s it.”  
“What did he say exactly?”  
“I don’t…”  


There was a pause.  
“He said ‘Goodbye, Sally.’ That was it.”

Mycroft snorted into the phone.   
“You idiot. You didn’t think that meant something was up? After someone acting that way all week and then out of nowhere just says goodbye to you? Are you really that ignorant?”  
“Wha…?” Sally said, her voice showing her fear. Mycroft was satisfied with that.  
“Well, he attempted to commit suicide earlier today after leaving the office. I alerted the emergency services and his other friend, and so we made it there in time to save him. He’s currently in the hospital.”

Mycroft took a sadistic pleasure in hearing Sally’s distressed squeal. He denied her coming to visit. He promptly informed her that he needed to phone her colleague, Phillip Anderson, and hung up. He smiled to himself. At least she was realising how bad things were for Gregory, but he felt a twinge of self hatred at himself because he had been just as ignorant not 12 hours ago. 

The beginning of his phone call with Mr Anderson had gone similar to his one with Ms Donovan. However, he seemed to realise that something was wrong earlier, and care more. It surprised Mycroft, since his brother had always spoken so derogatorily about him. 

“I… I realised something was up today, when he bumped into me and said goodbye. I mean he normally doesn’t use my first name, and he never says ‘goodbye’, I mean, who does? I thought that tomorrow I could talk with him, and tell him that I felt bad bout how things happened and that I regretted being so forceful in my accusations against Sherlock. I mean it’s obvious he’s taken it hard…oh god, what’s happened? He… he… looked so depressed, and you’re telling me now that things aren’t ok…”  
“Your assumption is correct, Mr Anderson.”  
“I… I was awful to him, Mr Roft.”  
“Mycroft. Not Mike Roft.”  
“What? Oh, sorry. Mycroft. Is…is he ok though?”  
“No, he’s currently in hospital, but he is alive.”  


Mycroft easily worked out that Mr Anderson was a lot more remorseful than Ms Donovan. He didn’t allow him to visit either, but asked to call him again later to discuss how to make things better for Gregory in the future once he returns to work. Mr Anderson requested that he inform Gregory that he was sorry, and Mycroft said he would if he felt he could bring up the subject. He honestly wasn’t sure if it would help Gregory at the moment. 

He made one more phone call, explaining the situation to Gregory’s boss’s boss, and that the detective inspector would be absent from work until further notice. He ended the call, smiling to himself. Sometimes he enjoyed having so much power. Well, most of the time. 

He returned to the room to find Gregory had fallen asleep. John was sitting on the chair at the end of the room, and raised his finger to his lips to make sure Mycroft didn’t wake him. He waved at the doctor to join him outside. 

“I have arranged for Gregory to be off work until further notice. Now, I suggest we go speak to the nurse in charge. They will no doubt attempt to make us leave, and I assume you do not wish to?”  
John nodded. 

“Are you staying as well?” John asked incredulously. It was becoming evident that Mycroft did _really_ care about Greg. Offering to stay in the hospital was simply astounding to John.  
“For the time being, yes. I will organise for some change in clothes for us as well as a place to sleep.”  
“Thank you, Mycroft. I’m serious, not just for this, but for everything. You saved his life. And he seems already much better having heard that you’re going to take care of him. You take care of us all… and in re-evaluating my own actions towards Greg, I’ve looked over mine towards you … and I want to say I’m sorry for my hostility all this time. Everything you’ve done has been to try and help others, and I saw you as having so much arrogance and power that I forgot for a while that you’re still human… and humans make mistakes. All this is hard on you too so don’t ignore yourself either, ok?”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. He knew John was being rather repetitive, but he needed to hear it just the same. He nodded.  
“And I think Greg really likes you. You must remind him of Sherlock or something, cause he told me things don’t seem so bad when you’re around.”

Mycroft tried to hide the faint reddening of his cheeks, and smiled. He’d always found the DI interesting, and had always felt affection towards him. Usually, he’d remind himself that he was affectionate because of how well Gregory took care of Sherlock. But now, he found himself caring for him independently of Sherlock. Mycroft contemplated on how this average bloke from NSY had managed to be appreciated entirely in the background for so long, and then suddenly become entirely… _unavoidable._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading Part I! I have continued the story in Part II now, which involves Mystrade developing, Greg's emotional healing, and working to clear Sherlock's name.


End file.
